


The one thing that I was missing

by nataliaa



Category: Schitt's Creek
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dystopia, Developing Relationship, Friends to Lovers, M/M, Quarantine, Slow Burn, pandemic au, social distancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 04:01:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26529397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nataliaa/pseuds/nataliaa
Summary: “So Mutt dated both Twyla and Alexis?” Patrick asks, picking up the thread of their conversation.“Mmhmm,” David hums. “I think his type is just ‘chatty enough that I don’t have to talk’. Although,” he says, “Alexis turned out to be more than he bargained for. Which is kind of a family trait.”Patrick peers over at him and raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re too much, David.”“Well,” David says, taking a gulp of his wine, “we are on day zero-point-five of fourteen, so you might want to withhold judgment for a few more days.”Or: The fluffy dystopian pandemic AU that precisely nobody asked for.
Relationships: Alexis Rose & David Rose, Patrick Brewer/David Rose, Stevie Budd & David Rose
Comments: 54
Kudos: 190





	The one thing that I was missing

**Author's Note:**

> I started writing this fic in... April? At the time, it was a useful outlet for me: take the bad things happening in the world to an apocalyptic worst-case extreme, and write something fluffy to convince myself that good things can and will still happen no matter what. The American "government" had not yet completely mangled our pandemic response. Wildfires had not overtaken the west coast. Now, this dystopian AU frankly feels less like an AU and more like a possible future every day. (That said, I also recognize how lucky I am to be so far minimally impacted by all of these disasters, and I'm fully aware that this is not the case for many, many people.)
> 
> Please therefore note: This story does include a version of the pandemic and vaguely defined climate catastrophes. If those are not things you'd like to encounter in your fic right now, this might not be your particular cup of tea. Please take care of yourselves.
> 
> All of that said, the focus of the story really is on David and Patrick's developing relationship, not the specifics of the broader world. If you choose to read, I hope you enjoy <3
> 
> P.S. Have taken my cues from Daniel Levy and played fast and loose with timelines and things like—gestures vaguely—electrical capacity or lack thereof. Please don’t examine any of the practical premises too closely.
> 
> Title is from James Morrison’s “Precious Love”.

It’s for the best, David supposes, that he never cared much for being outdoors unless it was as an excuse to day drink, and that his opportunities for glamorous day-drinking have been severely limited for several years now, because it means that his life hardly changes at all. At first. It’s not like he misses sitting in the sun (just thinking of the UV damage makes him shudder) or any kind of sports-related activities (running, ew) or gathering with large groups of people (his nuclear family is more than enough, and even them he generally prefers to avoid). Sure, they can’t go to the cafe anymore, but Twyla has embraced this newest challenge with characteristic enthusiasm and unflappability, so they’re just picking up their usual mediocre meals curbside and most of the time David eats (carefully) on his bed, instead of in a sticky booth.

He sits inside, and feels relieved to have an excuse to put off job-hunting for a little while, and reads, and needles Alexis until she has nowhere to storm off to except next door to their parents’ room, and inevitably she storms right back in after less than five minutes. He and Stevie send each other the most depressing and the most offensive memes they can find, the ones to which they relate uncomfortably, and he misses her more than he would ever admit but ultimately can’t blame her for choosing to quarantine in her sad little apartment (“David, may I remind you that I, unlike you, do not actually live at the motel?”). He wishes he had access to her wine stockpile though; it would make being constantly in the immediate vicinity of his family slightly more bearable.

Then, of course, things get worse.

—

The first official town hall is literally the first time David has left the grounds of the motel in months. The surgical mask is scratchy and uncomfortable—he’s never in his entire life wanted so badly to touch his face for no reason, and it’s definitely going to make him break out in ways that he can’t afford now that his supply of skincare products is decidedly finite—but he also wishes he’d always had an excuse to put a barrier between the air he breathes and the air Roland breathes. As much as he hates the motel, and as much as he’d started itching to go literally anywhere else, they haven’t even walked all the way across the parking lot when tendrils of panic start to claw up from the pit of his stomach. He feels exposed and disoriented, the sky too big and too gray, the trees looming ominously.

He pulls his travel-size bottle of hand sanitizer out of his pocket and rubs a dollop over his hands in practiced motions, even though he hasn’t touched anything since he stepped outside, and even though he and his family have been entirely isolated at the hotel for the emotional equivalent of a decade. It doesn’t really help, so then he adjusts his mask, carefully trying to minimize openings by his nose and ears. That doesn’t settle his stomach either. He sanitizes his hands again.

“Oh my god David,” Alexis says, batting his hand away from his face. “Stop it. You’re _fine_.”

“Drink bleach, Alexis,” he snaps back halfheartedly. They’re already late because she spent twenty minutes messing with her mask before they left, making sure her hair fell around it perfectly and redoing her eye makeup because “you can’t see my lipstick so my eyeliner has to _pop_ , David!”

“Okay but seriously,” Alexis continues, “It’s literally just like, Ronnie and Roland and Jocelyn and whoever, and everyone in town has been completely quarantined for like, ages, so will you just calm down already?”

“Really David,” Moira says, “you must refrain from rubbing your hands like that. You look like a cockroach. It is exceedingly unbecoming.” She arches an eyebrow at him from behind her black silk mask. David has no idea how or why she had that in her possession before the pandemic even hit, and he is not remotely interested in finding out.

“ _Okay_ ,” David say, “Excuse me for being a little bit concerned about a deadly mutant virus that’s killed millions of people across the world, and for not entirely trusting the hygiene standards of _some_ of the people living in this town.”

“Oh I wouldn’t worry about that,” Johnny says. “Jocelyn teaches some of the ninth-grade science classes, so she has at least a high school-level understanding of biology. I’m sure she’s keeping Roland in line.”

David rolls his eyes extra hard to compensate for the fact that his grimace isn’t visible, as Alexis exclaims, “Oh my god that’s so reassuring, thanks so much!”

In the interest of social distancing, the town hall is being held on the baseball diamond at Ronnie’s Rec Center, and Ronnie herself has claimed home plate as her podium while the rest of the town is dispersed across the bleachers.

“Well look who’s still alive and well,” Stevie says, plopping down next to David, half a bleacher away. Her dark eyes peek out over a red bandana tied around the bottom half of her face, like a Wild West bandit. It’s a disturbingly good look for her.

“What? Obviously I am,” David replies.

“So nice to see you too, Stevie.” She rolls her eyes. “It’s just that the other day you seemed so concerned that you couldn’t taste the full flavor profile of your Cafe lasagna, and then you kept telling me that your citrus and bergamot aromatherapy candle didn’t smell as potent as usual so—”

“Wow, thanks so much for your concern,” David says quickly, before she can go on. “I had no idea you cared.” Literally everyone in the world had spent the last year panicking every time they sneezed, it’s not like he was overreacting to be worried about loss of his olfactory senses.

“All right, folks!” Ronnie shouts, while Roland loiters six feet away from her and nods in what is probably meant to be an authoritative way. “Welcome to the apocalypse. Now listen up, because I’m not going to repeat myself.

“This is the deal now: you all are only here today because nobody has come in or out of Schitt’s Creek in over a month. During this time, we’ve constructed preliminary barriers around the town. These will be reinforced and surveyed. Until further notice, you don’t cross that town limit. Anybody tries to enter, they get questioned and removed or quarantined. Preferably removed. No exceptions. This includes all of you, if you’re dumb enough to try and sneak out.

“Chores will be assigned on weekly rotations, and you are expected to adhere to your tasks. No absenteeism. No tardiness. No exceptions. I don’t care how you feel personally about any of the work, because all of our lives literally depend on you pulling your weight, so you can just suck it up.” She pops the _p_ and blatantly angles her entire body toward the Rose family. Rude.

“Supplies will be stockpiled and rationed. You have a problem, you think you need more, you come to me. The Council has the final say on any additional allocations.

“ _And_ if I catch any of you outside without your damn face covered, or conversing close enough that you don’t have to raise your voice to be heard, you get a week on fertilizer rotation. Ask Roland how much fun that is.”

David shudders and truly regrets wishing for the end of indoor isolation.

—

David has never so much as pulled an errant dandelion, let alone attempted anything that could be categorized as _agriculture_ , and he cannot comprehend why Ronnie nevertheless assigned him to the vegetable plot for his first chores rotation. The fact that she also loaned him a (freshly hand-laundered) work shirt that fits unexpectedly well does little to soothe him; she knows perfectly well that he doesn’t own anything that he would be willing to wear in a situation with dirt, bugs, and sweat. Under normal circumstances, there is very little that could persuade him to put something as completely off-base as a borrowed flannel shirt on his body, but this is the second time in recent years that his world has crumbled, and this time literally everyone else’s has too, so David has grudgingly conceded that these circumstances are decidedly not normal and is wearing Ronnie’s shirt, his least-favorite jeans, gardening gloves and a surgical mask hiding his scowl when he turns up at the sad little garden behind town hall.

The other guy is already there, kneeling in the dirt and… weeding, maybe? Holding a little shovel and doing something at the base of something that might be a tomato plant. Or a small sunflower. Who even knows. His T-shirt is already slightly darkened with sweat, which would be gross except that it’s clinging to some very nicely defined biceps, and David would be concerned about sunburn on his abnormally pale exposed forearms except that the sun has been mostly hidden behind a thick layer of hazy smoke for the past six months.

The guy turns around as David approaches. He’s wearing some hideous drugstore-brand sunglasses over his face mask, so the sweaty biceps and pasty complexion are still pretty much the only identifying features David has to go by, because his face is almost completely hidden.

“Oh, hey!” he calls. It sounds like he’s smiling, despite being smudged with dirt and streaked with sweat. What an asshole. “David, right? I hope you don’t mind that I got started without you, the sweet potatoes were looking pretty dried out.”

David carefully raises one eyebrow. “Mmm nope, no problem, wouldn’t want the, uh, sweet potatoes to be thirsty, would we, um…?” Fuck, who is this guy and how did he know David’s name?

“Shit, sorry—I’m Patrick.” He’s clambering up off the ground and moving forward, starting to extend a gloved hand before he catches himself and abruptly stops, turning the gesture into the most ridiculous little wave that David has ever seen. “Um. It’s nice to meet you?” Patrick laughs a bit self-consciously, then takes a hesitant step backwards. “I moved here six months ago, which was not exactly ideal. It’s pretty weird to have lived in a place for this long and not really seen anything or met anyone. Not to mention I only spent one week doing the job I moved for before local business licenses became a kind of moot point.”

David winces sympathetically in spite of himself. He wouldn’t wish a lockdown in this godforsaken town on anyone, especially if they’d come so close to being able to shelter somewhere else that might still approximate a level of civilization. “And on top of all that, you’ve now been roped into menial labor in a place that up until recently was a creepy excuse for a park with one sad bench where teenagers engaged in semi-public blowjobs.”

Patrick tilts his head to the side, and David could swear that the visible edges of Patrick’s cheeks and forehead are pinker than they had been a minute ago, but maybe he’s pale enough to burn in this horrible gray sunlight after all. “Well, I actually volunteered for gardening duty. Thought it would be a nice change of pace to actually be outside a bit. Although I was very much unaware of the vegetable plot’s illustrious history when I did so.”

“Yes, sadly for all of us, exhibitionism is mostly a thing of the past now. And that’s, um. That’s a thing I just said. So”—David looks around somewhat frantically—“I guess I’ll just, um… water something? Or…” What else was there to do with plants? Nothing was ripe yet, he didn’t think, unless maybe the sweet potatoes were already ripe underground? Or were those peppers actually meant to stay green, in which case…?

“Here,” says Patrick, holding up some kind of chunky scissors that he had apparently manifested out of nowhere, “you can trim off the dead growth.” He puts the scissors down and moves to the end of the row of plants so that David can pick them up.

"Right," David says, eyeing the vines skeptically. Most of them look like they are struggling, to put it mildly. "And, just to be clear - how, exactly, do I correctly identify the dead bits?" 

“This really isn’t your wheelhouse, huh?" Patrick says dryly, and David feels himself stiffen.

"Okay, I don’t know what that means, but just because I prefer to spend my time indoors, like a civilized human, and not like, stomping through mud in search of poison oak and tick bites—” 

"Whoa, hey, sorry, I was just kidding!" Patrick holds his hands out in an _I surrender_ gesture that is recognizable even in the absence of any facial expressions. "Sorry," Patrick says again, more softly. "I keep forgetting that, uh, this whole situation”—he gestures vaguely towards his face—“makes facetiousness kind of a poor choice for communication methods. I'm currently cringing at myself," he adds, shrugging.

David can see blotchy red spreading up his neck, which could either indicate blushing or an impressive talent for sunburn without being exposed to direct sunlight. Whatever the cause, David hates that he finds it oddly endearing.

“Okay,” David says, as quiet as Patrick. “So I’ll just…” He moves toward the nearest vine, as Patrick backs up correspondingly.

“Just look for anything that’s brown and dry,” Patrick says, holding up an example. “Getting rid of those parts makes sure that the plant isn’t wasting its energy, and encourages new growth instead.”

David finds himself swallowing hard. “Okay,” he says again. He takes the nearest shriveled tendril carefully in his left hand and snips, letting it fall to the ground while the remaining green vine bounces back into place. It’s satisfying, and oddly beautiful. He snips again, and again. Patrick doesn’t push, just watches for a moment and then slowly moves over to the next row of plants, leaving David to work quietly on.

—

“What do you mean, he called you stupid?” Stevie says. She squints into her phone and takes a healthy swallow of wine.

“Like, because I’m not a trained botanist or whatever, I don’t know anything? I’m sorry if this is the first time I’ve been forced to labor, physically, in a field of produce if I want to eat.” David settles back against the horrible headboard of the honeymoon suite bed, phone in one hand, wine in the other. It’s a sign of how dire the situation has become that he feels comfortable in here because at the very least, no other humans have set foot in this room for months so there cannot possibly be any surviving coronavirus. (He’s still not sure about he half-life of other pathogens on various surfaces, so he’s carefully avoiding the carpet just in case.)

“All right,” Stevie says slowly. “But did he actually call you stupid? Because that seems like a pretty rude thing to do to someone you’ve just met and who is one of only a few hundred people on whom you are going to be severely interdependent for the foreseeable future.”

David sips at his own wine, from a stockpile he began building in the honeymoon suite as soon as the remote possibility of a lockdown was raised. He’s been pacing himself, but even his catastrophizing had not prepared him for the full breakdown of society, and sooner or later he’ll be forced to choose between sobriety and fruit wine. So far it’s still a toss up as to which way he’ll go.

Stevie is still staring up at him on FaceTime, and he sighs. “Fine, so maybe he didn’t actually use the word stupid, per se. But he definitely _implied_ it.”

David pauses again, thinking back over the afternoon. It had actually gone quite smoothly, once they each fell into their respective tasks. He and Patrick had chatted a little more, but between the masks, the fact that neither of them had done much of anything in recent months, and the uncertainty of the future, conversation was challenging.

“Okay actually I’m thinking about it, and I think I was the one who implied it. But he was still very—snarky, and sure of himself and. Um.”

Stevie is laughing outright now, and David glares at his phone. “It’s not _funny_ , I just don’t understand why I couldn’t do something with you, or at least be inside!”

“David, I’m literally digging septic tanks this week. Is that really something you would rather be a part of?” She doesn’t wait for his indignant response before continuing, “Anyway, you know Ronnie secretly likes you. If she assigned you to gardening, it’s probably because she genuinely thinks it’s your best option in our brave new world.”

David drains his glass and pours a refill. “To septic tanks and anemic vegetables, then,” he says, gesturing with his wine. “And to Ronnie continuing to keep Roland at least six feet away from any kind of substantive leadership role. We need all the fucking help we can get.”

—

The rest of the week passes uneventfully, all things considered. Patrick shows David how to weed (“Yeah, that’s it, you’ve got—oh, nope, now you’re going to need to dig out the rest of the root…”), how to fertilize (“Okay David, just breathe through your mouth, I promise you it’s no worse than all of the crap we’re already inhaling out here—” “That is _not_ helpful!”), and how to apply their homemade insect repellant. They plant new rows of lettuce and spinach and, when they arrive the next day to find that someone—presumably an animal, but possibly Roland—has taken bites out of some nearly-ripe tomatoes, they build a better fence around the whole plot.

“Oh my god, Bobby makes this look so much sexier on _Queer Eye_ ,” David grumbles, then, “ _fuck_ ,” as he nearly flattens his thumb trying to hammer the wire netting onto the posts they’e set up.

Patrick’s head immediately pops up from where he’s driving more posts into the ground. “David? Are you okay?”

It’s honestly not fair how good he looks after an afternoon of manual labor. His damp shirt is clinging to his chest, and rivulets of sweat are running down his neck to the divot between his collarbones. His baseball cap has been pushed to a jaunty angle and there’s a streak of dirt across his forehead. _God_ , he should like, be on the cover of a romance novel about a sexy farmer. Or maybe a retired baseball player who leaves a successful but unfulfilling career to search for happiness in the middle of nowhere and—

David blinks hard. So unfair. He, on the other hand, feels like he’s just come out of a spin cycle with dirt instead of detergent. Patrick is still looking at him, his forehead crinkled in concern. David runs a hand through his hair; it doesn’t help, the curls have broken free.

“Uh, yeah, yup, I still have ten fully attached and functioning fingers, so you know. All good.”

“Okay, yeah, that’s good then,” Patrick replies, somewhat nonsensically. “So in the interest of keeping it that way, um, maybe just hold the hammer a little more gently and a little less like you’re trying to strangle it, and then just tap the nail softly? After you tap it a few times, you can go a little harder, and it should slide in pretty easily.”

Patrick keeps looking at David, like he’s waiting to make sure he does it correctly. David stares, although it’s probably for the best that Patrick can’t see his face because David has no idea what kind of expression he is currently making.

“So I’ll just… tap it gently. And then tap it harder. And it’ll slide in,” David says. He picks up the hammer, and if he fondles it a little more thoroughly than strictly necessary, well.

Patrick watches him hammer, then gives a decisive nod and makes a show of turning back to his posts. “Good job, David!” He calls over his shoulder.

Beneath his mask, David can’t help grinning.

—

On the last day of their gardening rotation, David find himself inexplicably lingering, drawing out the watering longer than necessary, making sure there aren’t any more peppers ready to be harvested. Patrick is taking forever checking the eggplants for signs of pests, but finally he straightens up and heads toward David, pulling off his gardening gloves.

“Well, David, I think we really hit it out of the park this week,” he says, pulling off his sunglasses and perching them on the visor of his cap. He’s done this a couple of other times, revealing soft, warm brown eyes that always seem to be laughing at David, but in a good way, like it’s an inside joke just between them.

David pulls off his own white plastic frames. “Honestly, you _know_ I don’t understand that. But um, yes. This week was shockingly nice.”

“And I’m so glad you were here, Patrick, because you’re such a good gardener and you taught me so many things about—”

“ _Ugh_ yes, fine, I had no idea what I was doing, I know!” Patrick’s eyes are squinty like he’s smiling, and David feels a little off balance. “Thank you,” he says softly.

“Hey, no problem,” Patrick says with a little shrug. “So I guess—I guess I’ll just see you around?”

“I think that’s a pretty safe bet, since we are literally not allowed to go anywhere.”

Patrick’s eyes crinkle some more, and then he’s moving towards David a little and sticking out his elbow.

“ _What_ are you”—David holds out his hands in panic and takes a step backward—“Okay, no no no, that is _not_ a thing, we are not doing a weird coronavirus elbow fist pump, _who_ do you think I even am?”

“Aw, come on, David, I think it’s a really cool alternative to handshakes.”

_“No!”_

But Patrick just keeps standing there with his elbow pointing toward David, like a one-winged chicken, and there’s only so much David can take.

“You can never, ever,” he hisses, slowly raising his arm and moving toward Patrick, “ _ever_ tell anyone that I did this.” Their elbows make contact, and David quickly drops his arm. “Also, that is absolutely never happening again, I don’t care how long this situation goes on, I would rather blow a kiss to a stranger than greet them with some kind of vulgar pandemic chicken dance.”

“It’s been fun, David!” Patrick calls, walking away and sending him a small salute. “I’ll just blow you a kiss next time we run into each other.”

“ _Oh_ my god!” David drops his face into his hands, then immediately pulls them away again. “What just happened,” he mutters as Patrick disappears around the corner.

—

“David!” Alexis exclaims as he enters the room and immediately peels off his mask. “You survived being like, in nature for a week! Did your little button-face chore buddy protect you from all the bugs?”

“Get sneezed on by a Republican, Alexis,” David snaps. “Wait—what? Who’s a button-face? What are you talking about?”

“It’s okay, David, I know all about Patrick. Ray like, would not shut up all week while we were organizing the supplies. He told me about literally all the 47 ways he had been planning on expanding his business. He also made me look at the dumb flyers he’d already printed before the shutdown, and honestly he might not be that bad at marketing himself, because he put Patrick’s headshot all over them. That cute little face would totally convince me to Ray’s go for like, whatever business-y thing I needed.” She shimmies her shoulders for effect.

“Okay, ew,” David says. “That’s not—Patrick is fine. He’s, like, nice or whatever. And he knows a disturbing amount of very specific facts about the growth patterns of root vegetables.”

Alexis sits up straighter and leans forward over the table, peering at him. “Oh my god, you _like_ him, David!”

“What? No!” David wants to put his mask back on. He wants to go back outside. He wants to not be having this conversation. “Of course I don’t! That would be ridiculous. He plays _sports_ and goes outside for _fun_. He’s also very rude sometimes. And maybe _you_ think he’s cute, but _I_ haven’t even seen his whole face, so.” David closes his mouth so hard his teeth click. It’s too late.

Alexis is smiling wide enough that all of her perfect white teeth are visible. “You totally like him so much, oh yay, David!”

“Fuck off, Alexis!” David closes the bathroom door behind him just as he hears his parents’ door open, and his mother’s voice saying, “What’s this? Who do we like now?” David takes a deep breath and reaches for his cleanser.

—

David and Patrick are paired up again for the next week of chores.

“Oh,” David says as he pushes open the door to the former general store and sees Patrick shelving cans of beans.

“Oh hey, David,” Patrick says, putting down a can and waving a gloved hand. “Glad you could make it.”

“Pretty sure you were just early, actually, thanks,” David replies. “Um, are you stalking me or something?” Hundreds of people in this godforsaken town, and David has to spend another week in close-but-not-close-enough proximity to those arms? He might not be great at numbers, but even to him that seems statistically improbable.

Patrick raises an eyebrow at him. “Uh, nope, I think Ronnie said something about, um, us working well together? Or maybe me being a good influence on you?” He picks up a can, glances at it, and puts it right back down where it was. “So there’s a big box of rice and pasta and stuff that Mr. Hockley just brought over, if you want to start unpacking that? Honestly, who knew there were so many doomsday preppers in Schitt’s Creek. Lucky us, I guess.” He shrugs. “Although I do wish Roland had stockpiled more legumes than Spaghetti-Os. I’m not really looking forward to those.”

David shudders and shakes his head violently. “I used to have a standing reservation for the seasonal tasting menu at Osteria Francescana, and now I have to eat Roland’s canned baby food.”

“But hey, with the harvest from the garden, I think we’ll each have a quarter of a tomato for garnish!”

David sighs and heads for Mr. Hockley’s box of grains. Maybe if he’s lucky, there will be a bag of his signature tea blend hiding in there too.

—

“Oh shit,” David hears from across the room, followed by a surprised grunt.

There was nothing else to unpack today, so they had turned to reorganizing the room. Whoever had initially set things up had clearly just thrown boxes and bags and cans wherever they fit, with zero regard for maximizing storage space, organization, or being able to navigate the room without tripping over discarded boxes and squeezing between shelving units.

David looks over to see Patrick straining against a wood bookcase that is almost as tall as him and currently tipping towards him at a very precarious angle.

“Oh my god—” David drops a sack of flour and nearly trips over a bag of powdered milk in his haste to cross the room. When he gets there, he hesitates, fluttering his hands. Should he pull from the other side? Or push with Patrick? Or—

“David,” Patrick grits out, “can you just come here and help push it please? This thing is not as light as it looks.”

“Right, yes, of course, okay,” David babbles. He lines himself up next to Patrick and together they manage to shove the shelves so that they wobble back and then balance upright again.

Patrick huffs out a breath and then plops down on the ground, massaging his forearms. “Jesus, imagine surviving a pandemic, the collapse of the government and a half dozen climate disasters, only to be taken out by an unstable piece of furniture.”

Weighing his options and acknowledging that his pants are destined to slowly become grimier and more worn out no matter how long he avoids specific surfaces, David carefully sits down facing him. “That would have been pretty embarrassing for you,” he agrees. “But I could have like, told people that you were, um, bravely fighting a cockroach or something, before you got crushed.”

Patrick snorts. “I appreciate that. Definitely the stuff of folk-hero legends.” The tendons in his arms are still bulging as he flexes his wrists.

“But, um, seriously though, you’re okay, right?” David asks, look away from Patrick.

“Yeah. Thanks.”

“Why don’t you just, stay there for a sec, and I’ll go see what Twyla has for lunch? I’ll be right back. Don’t move.” David levers himself up, shaking out his legs and feeling way older than his thirty-f—thirty-whatever years, and picking his way over toward the door. “Don’t move!” He calls again.

Across the street, the Cafe is empty and quiet, as usual. “Twyla?” David calls, leaning over the counter.

“Just a minute!” Comes the reply from the kitchen, followed by a crash, and then Twyla emerges, ponytail bouncing. “David, hi! What can I get you?”

“Well, I think it depends on what’s available?” David hedges. It’s not like he ever reveled in the vast choices offered by the Cafe’s menu, but now it’s pretty much down to which cans of soup have been pulled on any given day.

“Right, sorry—it’s such a hard habit to break,” Twyla says brightly. “I have chicken noodle or split pea. There might also be a can of cream of mushroom, if you want me to go check—?”

David is already shaking his head. “No, nope, that’s fine, thanks so much—I’ll just take two chicken noodles, please.”

“Getting lunch for Patrick, too?” She says, turning back toward the kitchen. “That’s just so sweet. How are you guys doing?”

“Um, we—we are fine, I guess? Just, you know, working together. As assigned. By Ronnie.”

Twyla pokes her head back out. “You must just be getting along _so_ well, to be on the same rotation two weeks in a row. You know, it reminds me of my mom’s step-sister and her boyfriend, who met at the beginning of quarantine and—” There’s a splash and a hiss from the kitchen, and Twyla cringes and disappears, coming back out a minute later with two Tupperware bowls.

“Okay, thanks Twyla!” David says, snatching them and backing towards the door. “I’ll, you know, wash these and bring them back later! Bye!”

“Sure, say hi to Patrick for me!” She calls after him.

David finds Patrick sitting exactly where he’d left him, leaning back against a table leg with his eyes closed. His neck is a long pale line, and his hair is mussed, a few curls sticking up as though he’d been running his fingers through them. David closes the door softly behind him, and gently sets down the Tupperwares just as Patrick starts and opens his eyes.

“Oh man, sorry,” he says, yawning and then adjusting his mask. “I really have not been sleeping well.”

“Corona dreams?” David asks. He’s been having those himself: he’s desperately deep-cleaning every surface in their enormous old house, or he’s on the subway in New York and can’t keep himself from touching every possible surface, or he leaves his gallery at the end of the day, steps out into the street, and everything is completely deserted.

Patrick just nods and shrugs a little. “Yeah, something like that. Weird dreams. Can’t turn off my brain.” He doesn’t seem inclined to elaborate, and David is trying to figure out what to say when, to his mortification and relief, his stomach grumbles loudly. Patrick chuckles and pushes himself to his feet. “So what’s for lunch?”

“Oh, well, I hope you’re not too disappointed that I made an executive decision for chicken noodle over split pea?” David says dryly, nudging one of the bowls in Patrick’s direction.

“Nope, that was a pretty safe bet,” Patrick agrees.

“Uh, bon appétit then,” David says, grabbing his soup and heading for the back room. “ _Bon appétit_?” He mutters again to himself.

They never eat together, for obvious mask reasons, and no matter how quickly David scarfs down his sad Cafe lunch, Patrick is always back at work with his mask firmly in place by the time David returns. Not that he’s disappointed about this. Nope.

Today is no exception; when David reemerges, Patrick is gingerly shifting the bookshelf that had nearly fallen on him earlier, and David absolutely cannot believe his eyes. To his credit, Patrick looks sheepish, and allows David to take the other side so that they can push it safely back against the wall.

“You know,” David says, stepping back. “This is actually really good quality furniture. I mean, solid oak, nicely finished, the stain is natural, and the rows are perfectly spaced for like, Brenda’s skincare products, or those little baskets the Amish make…”

“Sounds like you’ve thought about this,” Patrick comments, eyebrows raised.

David can feel himself flushing. He’d gotten caught up in imagining, again, what this space might have been. What it could have looked like if, instead of being submerged in piles of non-perishable pantry items, he’d been able to carefully curate his vision.

“Not really,” he says, forcing his voice to be light. “I kind of had an idea at one point, but like, nothing major.”

“Really?” Patrick asks. “Because I feel like you thought this could be a store? I mean—I know it _was_ a store, but whatever you were talking about sounds way nicer than the bargain toilet paper and boxed wine this place used to sell.”

“Well… yeah.” David sighs. Patrick is looking at him so earnestly, eyes bright and all of his attention completely focused on David. It’s an unfamiliar feeling, and he’s unnerved enough that he actually keeps talking. “I, um, was thinking about applying to take over the lease? I wanted to turn it into a new general store, but like, a very specific kind of general store. There was going to be a curated collection of products from local artisans that I was going to sell under my brand. Like, skincare and personal care, but also home goods and wine, and Heather Warner makes this amazing goat cheese…

“But then, obviously, everything shut down. And now nobody is opening a new business, maybe ever again, so.” He clears his throat and looks away from Patrick, who is still gazing warmly at him. “So really, it’s probably for the best, because nobody really thought I could do it, anyway, and when it failed, it just would have like, proved to my parents that they were right all along.”

David’s eyes feel suddenly wet and that’s—no, that’s not at all okay, he absolutely refuses to _cry_ in front of _Patrick_ of all people, and certainly not over the Rose Apothecary that will never be. Everything is different now. It’s fine. He doesn’t know what he’s doing anymore, but at least he’s trying to hold it together. Most days, he’s mostly succeeding at it.

“I don’t think it would have failed,” Patrick says in a low voice.

“Well, that’s very kind of you to say, but it probably would have.” David is trying very hard to forbid the tears from spilling without touching his eyes, and that is not an easy task; Patrick is graciously ignoring his frantic blinking.

“No, really,” Patrick says a little more firmly. “It sounds amazing. It’s clear you’ve thought it through, it could have been a very sustainable business model, and it’s obviously a market that was just waiting to be filled in this town. I’m really sorry you didn’t get to do it, David. I would have liked to have seen your store.”

None of that is helping David to not cry. He lets out a kind of watery laugh, clears his throat, and waves his hands around a little because seriously, what on earth does one do with that kind of sincerity? Genuine human emotion has never been David’s strong point.

“You know,” Patrick says suddenly. “I kind of ran away, when I moved here. I just—I replied to this ad Ray had placed, and I’m pretty sure I’m the only one who did because he was _very_ enthusiastic about hiring me, and so I quit my job and told everyone this white lie about having a great opportunity with a friend of a friend from college. And then I just up and moved four hours away because I needed to do… _something_. I needed to try something different, but I didn’t really know what. Or why. So now, instead of trying to rebuild in my hometown, where I’d lived my whole life, with my parents and all of my childhood friends, here I am.”

He shakes his head, staring off into the middle distance. “You’re the only person I’ve said that to.” His gaze settles back on David, his tentative expression contrasting with the unwavering tone of his voice. “I guess what I’m trying to say is, this hasn’t exactly gone the way I planned either? But it hasn’t been all bad. And I think we’re going to get through it, David.”

David’s breath catches, and now his eyes feel wet for an entirely different reason. He can’t examine the feeling too closely; it’s too new, too fragile, too hopeful. Nobody has ever confided in him this way, or _looked_ at him this way, not even after he’d provided them with what he could be reasonably certain was the best oral sex of their life. For Patrick to not only hold David’s private dreams, but to trust him with his own secrets, sitting on the grimy floor of the old general store, surrounded by canned goods excavated from Roland’s garage and Bob’s basemen, when he’s heard Patrick’s laugh but never seen his smile—well, it’s frankly inconceivable.

Losing all their money and landing in Schitt’s Creek had felt like the end of the world; then being let go from the Blouse Barn after his first hesitant attempt to reinvent himself had felt like the end; then his mother had let slip that his entire career had been a carefully constructed charade. When the world had actually collapsed around him, it seemed like there was no point anymore. David had _tried,_ and now, it seemed, he was just going to sleepwalk through the rest of his life sharing a room with his little sister and attempting to preserve his few remaining pleasures by hand washing his designer knits and Egyptian cotton sheets in dirty creek water.

But now, all of a sudden and in spite of his better judgment, David realized that spending time with Patrick had become something to look forward to. He still wakes up disoriented and exhausted from pandemic-related nightmares and yet, somehow, he is increasingly relieved every time he opens his eyes and realizes he is actually in Schitt’s Creek, with Alexis in the next bed and a day of Patrick’s mild teasing ahead of him.

But obviously, that’s not something Patrick can know. Not now, and maybe not ever. David meets Patrick’s steady gaze, and hopes that it’s enough; that he doesn’t have the words to meet that soft, earnest honesty.

Patrick tilts his head a little, bends over and hefts a box onto the table in front of him. “Well, that canned cheese isn’t going to sort itself, David.” He gives a little shove to slide it over toward David, who can’t help but recoil.

“That is _not_ a thing,” he protests, even as he pulls out a can and reads the label. “ _Oh_ my god, this is a crime against dairy.”

“What do you think, should we put it with the soup or with the canned milk?” Patrick asks, reaching into the bag at his feet. “Or,” he says, straightening up and brandishing a bottle of mayonnaise, “with the condiments?”

“Nope!” David says brightly. He puts the can back in the box and shoves it into a corner. He still has _some_ standards, thank you, and times will have to get a lot more desperate before he willingly consumes anything that particular shade of orange.

—

David and Patrick spend two more weeks on the same rotation, the first of which is a very surreal series of days spend dipping candles with Gwen that David might have actually enjoyed (and for once was undeniably good at) if it hadn’t been for Gwen’s constant stream of highly inappropriate stories about her male cousins and her not-at-all subtle passes at Patrick.

“Wow,” Patrick says one afternoon as they leave for the day. “Nobody has ever, uh, complimented my ass with quite that level of disturbing specificity. Not even anyone I was dating.”

This is one circumstance in which David is not impressed by Patrick’s apparent unflappability. “Seriously?” He asks, stopping in the middle of the sidewalk to face Patrick fully. “That’s your reaction to all of—that?” He waves his hand vaguely toward Gwen’s house.

“Well,” Patrick says thoughtfully. “I guess there was this one time when I was told that—”

“ _Oh my god_ Patrick, just stop it, that woman is sexually harassing you like, _non-stop_! She’s hardly even looked at me, and my vicarious discomfort is basically unbearable. It doesn’t bother you at all?”

“It’s a little gross,” Patrick allows. “But I think she knows it would never happen. Sounds like she’s way too busy engaging in dubious incest, anyway.”

“It’s more than _a little gross_!” David is practically shrieking now. He has no idea what’s gotten into him. People have done far, far worse to him and he has walked it off. Repeatedly. But the idea of Gwen looking at Patrick—even _imagining_ that she could—with her shrew-like eyes and her flabby little hands. It is completely unacceptable, and David is inexplicably losing his shit over it while Patrick just stands there watching with a bemused expression.

“David,” he says gently, reaching out as if to put a hand on his shoulder before he remembers himself and drops his arm. “It’s fine. _I’m_ fine. Honestly. I know that, uh, different people have different levels of comfort with, um, different things. And people are triggered differently, or, you know. But it’s not a big deal to me. I don’t really pay much attention to her, frankly.”

“Gwen’s not your type?” David jokes weakly.

“Hah,” Patrick says dryly. “Come on, I’ll walk back to the motel with you. It’ll be nice to stretch my legs a bit.”

“Okay, but what if it was like, Alexis saying those things to you?” And _oh my god_ , where did that come from? What could possibly possess David to ask this very nice, mild-mannered boy, in his faded T-shirts and straight-leg jeans and baseball caps, if he would be into David’s sister sexually harassing him?

If Patrick wonders the same thing, he doesn’t show it. “I haven’t actually met your sister, David,” Patrick says, starting to walk, “although I have heard a lot about her. But I’m pretty sure she’s not my type. Come on, keep up.”

“Oh,” David breathes, “okay?”

—

After one more week back in the vegetable plot, which now feels familiar and borderline enjoyable, not to mention peaceful with just the two of them out there, it’s time for the monthly town hall.

The Roses troop out of the motel together, running late after Moira had a minor crisis upon discovering that Carol’s curls had fallen limp and having neither the time nor the electricity to re-style her before leaving; it had taken Johnny 10 minutes to talk her out of the closet, which frankly was a record. Maybe they were all starting to adapt to their newest constraints.

As they arrive at the baseball diamond, David, almost unwillingly, immediately spots and makes eye contact with Patrick across the bleachers. As Patrick gives a little wave, David realizes that he’s not alone: he’s sitting next to—immediately _next to_ —a tiny red-haired woman. And that—that doesn’t make any sense at all. Patrick just moved here, his family and friends are all back home; he’s said as much.

Alexis, hawk-eyed as ever, squeals and grabs his arm. “Oh my god, _look_ , it’s your little button! Come on, I want to meet him.” And then she’s off, pulling him across the field, towards Patrick and his mystery woman.

“Alexis,” David hisses, trying to resist, “ _no,_ stop it, I don’t want to—uh, hi, Patrick,” he finishes, as they skid to a stop a few feet away.

“Aren’t you going to introduce me, David?” Alexis asks. “Hi,” she says immediately, “I am Alexis”—here, she pauses to brandish that stupid necklace—“and I am David’s sister and life coach and, basically, best friend.”

“Not true,” David mutters, and hears Patrick snort quietly.

“And you must be Patrick!” Alexis continues. “I’ve heard _so_ much about you, David just won’t shut up about how like, capable and knowledgeable and competent—”

“ _Okay_ ,” David says loudly, “Thank you, Alexis, that is _more_ than enough of an introduction from you.”

“And Rachel, right?” She says, completely ignoring him, and turning to the girl. And how the fuck does _Alexis_ know her name?

“Yeah, hi,” the girl—Rachel—says, waving. “Nice to meet you.”

“Oh hi,” David says. “I’m David. Patrick has told me absolutely nothing about you.” He doesn’t care if it’s rude; it’s true. He and Patrick have had a full month’s worth of conversations now, about their families and their childhoods and David’s skincare regimen and Patrick’s favorite, uh, sports teams of some kind—and this _Rachel_ somehow has never once come up.

Alexis whirls around and limply smacks his upper arm, but David’s eyes are trained on Patrick, so he sees his minuscule flinch. “David, that is _so rude_. What are you talking about? Obviously Patrick has mentioned his fiancee, you just are physically incapable of retaining any knowledge that doesn’t directly relate to you.”

David wants to tell her that _she’s_ the one who doesn’t know what she’s talking about; he remembers every single thing Patrick has ever said to him. Except for the stuff about sports teams, but that’s not his fault. He could probably recite, verbatim, each conversation they’ve had; he certainly replays them in his head enough.

But he can’t tell Alexis any of that, because he can’t seem to formulate words. All he can do is stare at Patrick. He thinks, vaguely, that he might be having another panic attack; his heart is racing erratically, there’s a weird buzzing in his ears, and none of this makes sense. Patrick has a _fiancee_? Patrick has spent a month teasing David, and teaching him, and making sure he drank enough water, and the entire time, he was living with a woman to whom he is engaged to be married.

“David,” Patrick says standing up, “she’s not—”

That’s all it takes for David to unfreeze, to shake his whirling head and start stumbling away on legs that really do not want to cooperate.

He hears Patrick call his name again, and then Alexis does too, but he doesn’t stop. Running has never been an activity at which he excels, but he’s never been quite this motivated before, and before he knows it he’s off the field, heading down the street and past the Cafe. He’s not sure where he’s going; it doesn’t matter anyway. His heart is pounding in his ears as his feet pound on the pavement, and he’s getting short of breath but he doesn’t want to stop. He doesn’t know what’s going to happen when he stops.

Logically, he knows this is not a rational reaction. David has found out far worse things about people he was sleeping with, people he thought he was in relationships with, and has not had panic attacks over these revelations. And Patrick—he obviously was neither sleeping nor in a relationship with Patrick. Apparently they hardly even knew each other. There was no reason to feel like the sky had just fallen on him yet again.

Finally he really can’t breathe, between the mask and the air quality and the lack of any cardio to speak of for months upon months, and he’s forced to stop. He bends over, bracing his hands on his knees, taking huge gulping breaths, and realizes he’d run straight past the motel.

“David,” says an unexpectedly nearby voice, and David startles so hard he sits down. “Please just let me try to explain?” Patrick says, kneeling next to him.

Patrick is way closer than he should be, but David just drops his face into his hands and does not give a single fuck. “Why didn’t you tell me you have a fiancee?” He pants through his fingers.

“Because I _don’t_ ,” Patrick replies immediately. And what the fuck. “Rachel isn’t my fiancee,” he repeats.

“What,” David says flatly. “So why would Alexis think that?”

Patrick sighs. “She must have been talking to Ray. You know how chatty he gets, and—okay, that’s not the point. The point is”—face still in his hands, David hears Patrick take a deep breath—“the point is, Rachel _was_ my fiancee, when we moved to Schitt’s Creek. We’d been engaged for almost a year, and I kept putting off setting a date. And then I convinced her to uproot her life and follow me here, even thought I _knew_ —I just knew it didn’t feel right. But I couldn’t put a finger on _why_.”

He goes silent for so long that David almost thinks he’s walked away, but when David finally lifts his head, Patrick is still right there, sitting cross-legged and pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Turns out, a few weeks of quarantine were all it took for us to finally face facts. We broke off the engagement. We broke _up_. But by then, there wasn’t anywhere for either of us to go, so…” He scrubs his face, then looks David in the eye. “I didn’t tell you because—”

David isn’t sure what he’s going to say, and he isn’t sure he wants to hear it, whatever it is. The fact that Ray, and Alexis, and possibly the entire town—everyone except for David—knew about Patrick and Rachel, and David had been so oblivious, so lost in his own little delusions, had just waltzed into that vegetable garden and believed every earnest word that came out of Patrick’s mouth—it made his chest clench painfully. And yet.

“You didn’t have to tell me,” David says quickly. “It’s not—it’s your business. It’s not like you owe me anything.” He tries to sound offhand about it, and he knows as the words leave his mouth that he has failed spectacularly.

“No, David, come on. Please. I just, I didn’t know how to tell you, and I didn’t want you to, um, judge me for it, I guess. I was really enjoying getting to know you, and—and spending time together. I know I should have said something, but I didn’t want that to change our, uh, friendship. Back home, everyone knew everything about everyone. Everyone knew me and Rachel, together. And I wanted—I liked having a fresh start, with you? I liked that you just knew me on my own terms, the way that I see myself now, not the way that everyone at home has always seen me, and not as someone who spent the entirety of their twenties in a relationship that ended up as a broken engagement.”

He huffs out a breath. “Being around you, David, I’ve felt more like _me_ than I had in years.”

Oh god, David can feel the tears building up. They’re at least partly angry tears, anger over having once again made himself vulnerable and tried to trust someone who, in the end, had not reciprocated. But also— “Okay, that might be the nicest thing anyone has said to me in years. Possibly the nicest thing anyone has _ever_ said to me and actually meant it.” Patrick is looking at him with those big brown eyes, and David has to tilt his face skyward and just will himself to hold it the fuck together a little longer.

“I’m really sorry, David,” Patrick says quietly. “I see now that it was kind of a big thing to omit.”

“Um, yes,” David says, blinking furiously. “Kind of a big thing. Which caught me slightly, um, by surprise, because of all the things we _have_ talked about? And I don’t exactly make a habit of like, talking to people or being sincere or whatever, because in the past, when I’ve done that, it hasn’t generally gone super well for me.” He clears his throat, and manages to lower his gaze back to Patrick. “But really. I appreciate your, um, explanation, but it’s not necessary. It’s your life. And we work chore rotations together, so.”

David pushes himself to his feet, and fuck, does he regret the running. There are muscles he didn’t even know he had in his legs that are already sore. “So, I should probably go—back. To the motel. Where I live. And I guess I’ll see you around. And Rachel. She, um, seems very nice. Even if it didn’t work out between you guys. Okay.”

Patrick watches him, sitting slumped over his legs, making no move to get up himself. “Okay, David,” he says. David thinks he maybe sounds a bit sad, but he’s probably just projecting. “I’ll see you around.”

—

David doesn’t leave his room for three days. He had been assigned another week of working with Patrick—which seriously, what the fuck, there were at least two hundred other people in town—and he obviously wasn’t going to do that. Alexis told him that she and Stevie had talked Ronnie into letting him take a few days for himself, like she expected him to be grateful when she was the one who had blown up this whole fucking situation, and he had just rolled over and put a pillow over his head until she took the hint and left him alone.

On the fourth day, he wakes up to Stevie pelting him with balled up socks. “What the actual _fuck_?” He growls.

“Get your ass out of bed,” she replies, lobbing another pair.

“This is disgusting, and you aren’t supposed to be in here,” he says, throwing them back at her.

“They’re clean, and I don’t care. You’ve used up your allotment of time for wallowing. It might have been a full week, if you and Patrick had actually been _dating_ , but since you haven’t pulled your heads out of your asses yet, you only get three days. Let’s go.”

“Go _where_ though,” David grumbles, but he sits up before she can hit him again. “Also _what_? Nobody’s heads are in their asses, Patrick was never interested in me.”

“Oh, okay,” Stevie says mildly.

“ _What?_ You’ve seen Rachel. You’ve seen Patrick’s basic sports bro wardrobe. I am not his type.”

“Sure, keep telling yourself that. I don’t really care.” Stevie stands up and looms over the bed as best she can, considering that David sitting is almost as tall as she is standing. “If you’re not outside in five minutes, I’m telling Alexis you offered her the last of your eucalyptus under-eye serum.’

“You wouldn’t!”

Stevie just raises her eyebrows and backs out of the door, shutting it behind her.

“Fuck,” David mutters. He stands up. Five minutes isn’t nearly long enough and Stevie knows it.

It ends up being worth his while to rush through his cleanser, brush his teeth, and shove on a toque, because when he emerges, Stevie just leads him around behind the motel, plops down on a picnic table, and produces a plastic baggie with two joints. After pulling out one for herself, she tosses the baggie to David, who surprises himself by both catching it and also not falling off of his own picnic table to do so.

“I think you’re my best friend,” he says, as he scrambles for the lighter that she has also tossed over and that he has failed to catch.

“You think?” She asks dryly, pulling her bandana off her face to hang around her neck.

David just glares, carefully removes his own mask by the ear loops and lights up. They sit in silence for a few minutes, reveling in the very minor rule-breaking of being outside, together, unmasked, and smoking Mr. Hockley’s best.

“Seriously though,” Stevie says finally. “What’s going on there?”

“Um?” David says. He gestures vaguely around him as if to say, _this is what’s going on here_.

“With Patrick,” she says. “He likes you.”

David groans. “Can we just not,” he pleads. “I was actually enjoying myself for a minute.”

“You haven’t seen him with Rachel. It’s, like, very clear that they are not a couple anymore. They’re just stuck together now.”

“Oh okay, that’s great then,” David says. “I’ll just ask out the guy who’s _stuck_ living with his fiancee—ex-fiancee—and who’s also one of the only people I actually like in the post-apocalyptic nightmare in which we all now live.”

“So you _do_ like him.” Stevie smiles toothily.

“I don’t—I didn’t—okay, it’s all _very_ relative right now!” David tries to look disgruntled, but ends up grinning back at here, completely against his will. It’s just the weed kicking in.

—

Later that evening, David has grudgingly showered with the water that is at least still running through the motel’s pipes, even if it’s not always frigid—he is _not_ looking forward to winter—and is waiting for Alexis to come back with Cafe takeout. Her guilt about her role in the Patrick fiasco is still good for something, at least. He’s settling onto his bed with a book when there’s a knock at the door.

“What did you forget?” David calls. It’s not like Alexis really needs her wallet or phone anymore, but it wouldn’t be the first time she’d come back because she decided halfway that she didn’t like her lip gloss color.

“I didn’t forget anything,” says a voice that decidedly does not belong to Alexis. “Open the door, please, David?”

David’s heart lurches and he squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. Okay. He slips on his Uggs, grabs his mask, and opens the door. Patrick is standing a few feet back holding a Tupperware and a small paper bag.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi?” David says.

“I just wanted to—I know you usually—ugh, sorry.” Patrick glances away, then back. “I got my first share of the tomato harvest, and I made some pasta sauce from scratch. It’s nothing fancy, just marinara with a bit of basil from my window box. But I know you guys don’t really have a kitchen here, and I know how much you love pasta, so I thought you might want an alternative to the corn chowder that the Cafe is serving tonight.”

He puts the paper bag on top of the Tupperware and holds them out, extending his arms as long as he can.

David doesn’t know what to say, but automatically reaches out to accept the container. Something smells amazing. He opens the bag and peers in.

“And garlic bread,” Patrick says. “Um. Rachel made that. It’s really good. Mostly because there is a lot of butter involved.”

His stomach clenches at Rachel’s name, but it really does smell incredible. So much better than canned chowder. And the Tupperware is heavy with a generous serving of spaghetti. And Patrick is watching him carefully.

“This is the first non-Cafe meal I’ve had in a long time,” David says.

“Well,” says Patrick. “I’m glad I could help break that streak?”

“Thank you,” David says, and he means it.

“Good night, David,” Patrick says. “Oh—and I just wanted to say. If you wanted to, you could—I’d really like it if you wanted to work together again? Only if you want to. This week it’s, um, firewood. Anyway. You don’t have to, but.”

“Oh,” says David. Now he’s thinking about Patrick wearing flannel, and swinging an axe, and his biceps bulging as he—okay. “Um, I will think about it.”

“Okay,” Patrick replies easily. “Good night. Again.”

“Good night, Patrick,” David says softly to his retreating back.

The pasta and the garlic bread are fucking delicious.

—

David swallows his pride and his apprehension, and reports to the woodpile behind the baseball diamond the next day. He tries to tell himself it’s because he doesn’t want Ronnie to chew him out, or worse, make him shovel fertilizer, but he’d already admitted the real reason to Stevie, even if it had been an accident. He does like Patrick, even if it’s just going to be a friendly thing, and he doesn’t want to stay angry.

Of course Patrick is already there. He’s not wearing flannel, because it’s still July, but he is splitting a log and—David blinks, because this is disturbingly close to what he’d imagined. He’s still watching Patrick, trying to figure out how to approach him, when Patrick puts down the axe, swipes a forearm across his hairline, and then looks over to see David.

The corners of his eyes crinkle above his mask. “David, hi. I’m really glad you came back.”

David makes a brushing-away motion with his hands to try and buy some time to compose himself. Patrick really has to stop just _saying_ things like that; it’s not good for David’s blood pressure. “Yes, well,” he says finally. “The pasta was very good.”

Patrick laughs quietly. For a moment, neither of them says anything, and then David takes a step forward.

“Okay, so what are we doing here, exactly? Because there is no way I am swinging one of those things,” he says, gesturing to the axe grasped loosely in Patrick’s right hand.

Patrick laughs again, a bit louder, and David tries not to be offended. “Yeah, I figured,” Patrick says. “We’re also going to have to organize it into piles for people to pick up later, and Ronnie told me that there are a few logs out by the fence”—he jerks his thumb over his shoulder—“that still need to be brought back over here. We can do that together a little later, but you could start with this pile?”

“I didn’t sign up to be in a Sondheim musical,” David grumbles, even as he starts sorting the small logs, “I refuse to go into the woods.”

“But what if I promise to find you a cow as white as milk?” Patrick asks.

David looks up, aghast. “Am I the Baker’s Wife in this little scenario? Because need I remind you, that does _not_ end well.”

Patrick shrugs, then splits another log. “I never did like the second act very much. I prefer a happy ending.”

David does not find that endearing at all. Nope, that’s entirely naive and incorrect and defeats the whole purpose of Sondheim’s brilliant—

An hour later, David is still ranting about musical theater and Patrick is goading him with occasional questions that can’t possibly be anything other than deliberately obtuse. He’s cut off mid-sentence when Patrick drops the axe and stretches both arms over his head, cracking his back and revealing a glimpse of pale, toned stomach when his T-shirt rides up.

“All right, David,” he says, twisting side to side now. “If I promise not to make any more, quote, absurd and unfounded comments about Hugh Jackman’s portrayal of Valjean, will you help me carry those logs from the clearing?”

David grumbles, but relents and follows him down the path.

A “few logs” turns out to be a small forest of lumber. Patrick whistles lowly. “Well, we don’t have to move all of them today,” he says with a shrug. David bestows upon him what he hopes is a sufficiently incredulous glare.

Just then, something rustles in the trees behind Patrick’s shoulder and they both freeze. “It’s probably just a deer,” Patrick whispers.

“It’s probably a bear,” David hisses back.  
  
There’s more rustling, louder, and David is finally learning that when given the option between fight or flight, apparently his instinct is to play dead. Like an opossum. He’s going to die here, frozen in place like a horrible, ratty, nocturnal marsupial, and worse, Patrick is also going to die because David has no useful skills and is entirely incapable of defending him.

“Patrick!” David whispers.

Patrick holds up a hand. He’s turning himself around very, very slowly, so that his back isn’t toward whatever is coming out of the woods. David isn’t really sure that’s going to help. By the time they can see the bear, it’s definitely going to be too close and too late.

Twigs snap, and then a tall, dark figure emerges. David screams, and then focuses on what it actually is. Or, rather, who it is.

“David?” Says Mutt. He looks around the clearing. “Are you okay? What are you doing here?”

“ _Mutt?_ ” David manages to say, once he’s certain he’s not being eaten by a bear. “What the fuck? What are _you_ doing here?”

“Wow, long story,” Mutt says, shaking his head. “Tennessee and I drove cross-country for this pine cone harvest, but she ended up staying with Moonshine. I think they got married. I had started driving back when everything hit the fan. Got pretty crazy pretty fast. I’ve been camping in my car for the last few—what’s today’s date? It’s been at least six months. Had to take a lot of detours. Did a lot of foraging. Real glad none of those mushrooms ended up being poisonous.”

He shrugs and runs a hand through his shaggy hair. “Never thought I’d say this, but it’s good to see you. The road was blocked about a kilometer outside of town, and I’ve been trying to find a way over the fence since yesterday. Finally got to an unfinished section right over there.” He points back in the direction he’d come from.

David gapes at him. He’s not sure what a pine cone harvest is, or if Tennessee and Moonshine are people or maybe dogs. But he can definitely believe that Mutt has been on the road for months, judging by his unkempt beard and faded clothes.

Patrick has taken a step back towards David and is looking uncertainly between him and Mutt. “I’m sorry, how do you two know each other?” He says finally.

“Oh, Mutt is Roland’s son,”David replies, savoring the disbelieving arch of Patrick’s eyebrows. “He and Alexis also dated, before he left on his, um, acorn adventure.”

“Pine cone harvest,” Mutt says mildly.

“Wow,” says Patrick as David nods in agreement. “Okay. Hi, I’m Patrick. And I would say it’s nice to meet you, Mutt, except that your happy homecoming means that now we’re all in for two weeks of quarantine.” He turns to David. “Can you both stay here for a minute while I go get Ronnie?”

As Patrick makes his way briskly back up the trail towards the baseball diamond, David sighs and turns back to Mutt, who’s dropping a heavy-looking pack and looking around the woods contentedly. “Where the fuck is your mask, anyway?”

—

Mutt seems all too pleased at the prospect of spending two weeks alone in his barn, despite the family of raccoons that it’s been hosting in his absence. David is less happy about his options. He obviously can’t stay in his motel room, and the parts of the motel not occupied by the Roses have been rapidly converted into storage facilities. That leaves him the possibility of rooming with Mutt and a nest of literal wild animals, which frankly is not an option at all. He would sooner sleep in the Lincoln.

He’s about to inform Alexis, who’s standing a very generous half a baseball diamond away with Ronnie, Rachel and Johnny, that she’s going to have to move out of their room, when he sees Rachel lean over to Ronnie. After a minute, Ronnie nods and straightens up.

“Okay boys!” Ronnie shouts over. “Rachel has very generously offered to let David quarantine at her house. She says she can stay with Twyla until the two of you are out of isolation.”

David’s eyes dart to Patrick, sitting next to him on the bleachers, who looks just as shocked as he feels.

“You don’t have to do that, Rachel,” Patrick calls as he stands up.

Rachel shakes her head. “It’s the best option,” she shouts back. “Someone is going to have to move, and Twyla and I are friends. She has a spare bedroom. Plus this way, nobody is stuck inside one of those motel rooms.”

David has to concede the point, despite his confusion and discomfort. Rachel has no reason to do anything nice for him. The only time they’ve ever interacted, he threw a hissy fit and stormed off. It would probably serve him right to be cooped up in the motel again.

Patrick is looking over at him now. “Do you mind?” He asks, in a quieter tone. “It’s a nice house. There are two bedrooms and enough space that we wouldn’t be in each other’s back pockets the whole time. Rental rates in Schitt’s Creek were a lot more affordable than we’d anticipated.”

David wouldn’t really mind being in Patrick’s back pocket for two weeks, but he certainly isn’t going to voice that opinion. “Yeah, nope, sure, that sounds, um, fine, if everybody agrees? And if you also don’t mind, obviously.”

“I don’t mind,” Patrick says immediately. “Okay!” He shouts over. “Um—thanks, Rachel.”

“Thank you, Rachel,” David calls awkwardly, unsure if it’s actually loud enough for her to hear. Whatever, he’s trying.

Alexis claps her hands and bounces a bit. “Oh my god David, this is just going to be so good for like, my headspace. I’ve been trying to really work on my positive intentionality, and it’s just so hard with you like, stomping around all the time.”

“Okay, that is not at all the point, Alexis! Also I’m going to need you to bring my suitcases. Do you have something to write? You need to make a list. This is important. I was in _nature_ , I’m going to need a rehydrating mask.”

Next to him, Patrick does a very poor job of stifling his laughter.

—

The house _is_ nice, and clearly a much more pleasant place to stay than the motel, even if the cheerful yellow shade of the little Victorian cottage isn’t quite David’s personal aesthetic. Rachel’s already been by to pack a bag, and Alexis is supposed to drop off David’s suitcase later (he hopes she actually does, since he can no longer call her repeatedly to annoy her into doing so).

David trails Patrick up the front walk, suddenly very apprehensive about this whole situation. Spending two weeks in forced proximity with someone to whom he is undeniably attracted, in the house said someone had rented to share with the woman he was planning to marry, and which he has subsequently continued to share with that woman despite no longer planning to marry her. It's not the most tangled situation he's ever walked into, but it's a little unconventional. Then again, society has collapsed, so who is he to make judgments about convention?

He catches up to Patrick as he’s pushing open the front door and follows him inside. David leans down to unlace his shoes, lines them up next to the door, and looks to find Patrick waiting, having toed off his own shoes.

“Come on,” Patrick says, “you can wash your hands in the kitchen.”

They go through the new-familiar ritual of lathering up, scrubbing diligently, and rinsing thoroughly. David is putting the dish towel back on its rack, when out of the corner of his eye he sees Patrick raise a hand to his face and carefully remove his mask by the ear loops. And _oh_ , of all the twists that his day has taken, this is one he failed to anticipate.

Patrick grins at him.“Hi,” he says. “Make yourself at home?” A faint dimple pops in his left cheek. He’s got light stubble, and his lips are very pink. David is entranced.

David pulls off his own mask, and tries very hard to suppress his own smile. He’s pretty sure that if he let his face reflect his actual feelings, it would come off something like the Joker. Not a cute look. “Hi,” he says.

“Hey,” Patrick says again. He presses his lips together, still smiling even though now the corners of his mouth are pointing down. There’s something Kermit-the-Frog-like about his expression, and David adores it.

“So, um.” Patrick clears his throat, then holds out his hand. “I can just take your mask and pop it in the laundry basket. Also, uh, your clothes if—if you want to borrow something until Alexis brings your stuff?” He gives David a once-over that David is pretty sure is not entirely conscious or intentional. “I can probably get you a pair of sweats that would fit pretty well, even if they’re a little short. Here, I’ll show you.”

“I’m sorry, you expect me to wear _sweats_?” David objects, but he obediently hands over his mask and follows Patrick to the laundry room, to the bathroom for more hand-washing, and upstairs to a bedroom where Patrick rifles through a couple of drawers. David accepts the folded sweatpants and T-shirt without comment, because he does have a filter, even if he often chooses not to use it, and he’s not _that_ rude (thank you, Alexis). But when Patrick leads him next door and shows him where he’ll sleep, David can’t help but arch an eyebrow because it is clearly the master bedroom.

Patrick catches his expression and purses his lips. “I, uh, moved into the other bedroom when Rachel and I broke up. She’s been sleeping in here, so, now it’s yours for the next couple of weeks.” David can’t help but wince; he’s done awkward and uncomfortable things, but frankly nothing as difficult as that sounds.

After offering David first use of the bathroom, Patrick retreats to his bedroom. David appreciates the sentiment, he really does, but without his toiletries case there’s only so much he can do. He changes his clothes, putting on the surprisingly soft T-shirt (trying not to think about how it’s a little stretched out and loose around his shoulders) and the sweatpants which, as predicted, are a little bit short but otherwise shockingly comfortable. He splashes some water on his face, runs his hands futilely through his hair, and then wanders back downstairs.

The living room is clean and orderly, but impersonal. Aside from a guitar propped in a corner, nothing in the room gives any hint of belonging to the tenants. David wonders if there had been photos before, if they’d decorated together when they moved in; he wonders if afterwards, they’d taken things down, hidden the reminders of what had fallen apart.

He’s flipping idly through a _National Geographic_ from 2012 when Patrick pads down the steps in an outfit very similar to David’s. He looks comfortable, soft and relaxed in a way that he isn’t—that none of them are—outside. His sweats are falling low on his hips, his shirt stretches around his chest and his damp hair is starting to curl. His face breaks out in a smile when he spots David curled on the sofa, and David grins helplessly back.

They heat up some pasta over a camping stove that Patrick has set up on the back porch. “Do you mind leftovers?” Patrick had asked, and David had shaken his head so fast he hears something crack in his neck. “The alternative is canned soup,” he said. “Okay but also,” he added quickly, when Patrick had folded his arms and frowned at him, “I’m pretty sure I did tell you how much I liked the pasta. So.”

Patrick also produces a a decent-looking bottle of red wine and waves off David’s token protests over dipping into his ( _and Rachel’s_ , David’s mind helpfully adds) alcohol reserves. “It’s been a kind of unexpected day,” Patrick shrugs. “If possible exposure and renewed quarantine don’t deserve a few glasses of wine, I don’t know what does.”

David can’t really argue with that. He scrutinizes Patrick face for a hint of how, exactly, Patrick feels about their forced confinement—he knows he’s a lot, and his personal history confirms that people tend to tire of being in close quarters with him rather quickly. But Patrick’s expression stays easy and open, and he hands David a glass of wine with something that closely resembles a wink. He probably had something in his eye.

They eat by the light of one solar lantern and an assortment of candles (David tries very hard not to think of Gwen), and he can’t help but think that this is the most romantic evening he’s had in a long time. It’s ridiculous, of course, because the candles are for purely practical purposes, and also Patrick isn’t romantically interested David. He’s just a nice person, and the two of them are stuck together, both in this house for two weeks, and in this small town probably for the rest of their lives. And really, Patrick must be relieved to have a two-week reprieve from living with his ex. He’d probably be just as happy to be quarantined with Mutt or Twyla.

When the pasta is finished, Patrick tops off their wine glasses shepherds David back into the living room, where he sprawls back on the sofa with his feet propped up on the coffee table. David deposits the lamp and the rapidly-emptying wine bottle he’d snagged, and joins him, tucking his legs beneath him and leaning back against the armrest.

“So Mutt dated both Twyla and Alexis?” Patrick asks, picking up the thread of their conversation.

“Mmhmm,” David hums. “I think his type is just ‘chatty enough that I don’t have to talk’. Although,” he says, “Alexis turned out to be more than he bargained for. Which is kind of a family trait.”

Patrick peers over at him and raises an eyebrow. “I don’t think you’re too much, David.”

“Well,” David says, taking a gulp of his wine, “we are on day zero-point-five of fourteen, so you might want to withhold judgment for a few more days.”

Patrick shakes his head. “I think you’re forgetting what my baseline is? It’s, um. It’s really nice to have you here.” He glances at David with a little close-mouthed grin.

Of course, David has been trying all night not to think about Patrick’s baseline living situation, but it’s hard to forget about Rachel when he’s acutely aware that this is her house too. That she mysteriously, generously offered to move out of her own home, her bedroom, while they quarantined. It makes it hard to hate her, even if he wants to.

“Do you—” It’s out of David’s mouth before he can think better of it, and then he has no choice but to complete the question. “Do you want to talk about it at all? Um, Rachel? Only if you wanted to, like—I don’t know, just, I know you haven’t had a lot of people to talk to. And I’m sure it hasn’t been easy?”

Oh god, where was this coming from? David was _not_ this person. As a rule, he did not invite other people to tell him about their feelings, especially when those feelings did not directly concern him. He was not one of those supportive, empathetic lend-an-ear friends. He’d never talked about relationships with his friends in New York; all he knew was when they showed up with someone for the first time and when they stopped showing up together, or sometimes when he walked in on them hooking up somewhere in his apartment during a party. He never wanted to know any more than that. And yet here he is, incomprehensibly asking Patrick how he feels about his ex-fiancee. Even more unsettling is the fact that he finds himself genuinely caring about what Patrick might say.

He’d glanced away, off toward the dark corner of the living room, and when he looks back toward Patrick, Patrick’s mouth is a little bit open and his expression is measured.

“Really?” Patrick asks, and all David can do is nod. Patrick drains his wine, pour himself more, and then settles back and meets David’s gaze. His eyes gleam in the low light.

“Yeah,” Patrick says softly. “It’s not easy. It’s really fucking weird too. I don’t know how to”—he shrugs—“we started dating when we were seventeen.”

“Holy shit,” David says, completely by accident. “Sorry—”

Patrick laughs a little. “Nope, that’s absolutely the right reaction. We were off and on again for almost fifteen years. Almost half of our _lives_.”

David cannot in any way relate to this. If he’s being very honest with himself, and not making excuses or stretching the truth about Toni or Sebastien, the truth is the his longest relationship was less than three months. Patrick and Rachel have been exes for longer than David was ever anyone’s boyfriend.

“She’s my best friend,” Patrick continues, “And it always seemed like, everyone always talked about how you should marry your best friend. I wanted that. And I wanted to want to marry Rachel. We broke up so many times, but we always got back together, and I convinced myself that meant it was meant to be.” He sighs. “I should have broken it off before I moved. I _knew_ I wasn’t happy, but I thought—I hoped—that changing jobs, changing scenery, would somehow refresh everything.”

Patrick scrubs at his face and doesn’t speak for a long moment; David, while deeply uncomfortable with long silences, refrains from speaking through a truly heroic feat of self-control. He doesn’t know what to say, anyway; whatever came out would almost certainly be the wrong thing.

After taking a deep breath, Patrick continues. “I can’t forgive myself for bringing her here,” he says, voice muffled by his fingers. “I took her away from her family, from her home, because I thought I’d be happier here, and she thought that if I was happier, _we_ would be happier. But it turns out, I can’t make her happy, and now I’m all that she has. I trapped her with me.”

“Okay, _no_ ,” David bursts out. He pulls Patrick’s hands away from his face and waits for Patrick to lift his head and look at him. “Listen to me, Patrick. I know a lot—a _lot_ —about shitty relationships, and about doing desperate things for people who I thought would make me happy.” David is dimly aware that he is still holding Patrick’s hands, but he doesn’t quite know how to let go. “Rachel is an adult woman, and you didn’t make her do anything. You didn’t _take her away_. She might not have had all of the information she needed, but she chose to come with you and she knows you’re a good person. Even _I_ know that.” David waits for Patrick to look up at him, then says softly but firmly, “This is a shitty situation that you absolutely could not have predicted because it is quite literally unprecedented. Okay?”

“I should have known better,” Patrick says. He glances down at David’s hands clasped around his own, but doesn’t pull away. “It was never going to work, and I should have known sooner.”

David squeezes his hands lightly and then lets go, leaning back again and folding his hands in his own lap before he can do something stupid like try to kiss Patrick. Patrick, who is being very vulnerable. Patrick, who is gazing steadily at David, cheeks flushed, T-shirt pulled to the side and exposing one collarbone.

“I didn’t know until recently,” Patrick says. “It was never going to work with Rachel because—because I’m gay.”

David blinks. “Oh.” This unexpected day just keeps getting more surprising. The room suddenly seems very quiet, just David and Patrick and the shared intimacy of this revelation. He tries to gauge the reaction that Patrick expects, or needs. “Okay,” says David. He gives what he hopes is an encouraging smile.

“Yeah,” Patrick says, exhaling. “I’m thirty-two years old and this is something that I did not know about myself until very recently. That’s—um. That’s only the second time I’ve ever even said it out loud.” He gives an entirely mirthless laugh and reaches for his wine glass.

David’s grin goes crooked. “I’m honored,” he says, nudging Patrick’s leg. “But you know, it’s not a race. There’s no timeline. You know now, and that must feel good, right?”

Patrick snorts, but when he looks over, there’s a hint of a smile on his lips. “I’ll bet you were a lot better at figuring it out for yourself though.”

“Okay,” David huffs, “I clearly had a very different situation. Most people were shocked to learn that _I’m_ actually _not_ gay. But”—he flaps his hands, then grabs his wine—“this is not about the couple I brought home from college when I was twenty. This is about you, going through this very personal thing, on your own timeline. And I think, sometimes it helps—do you want to just say it again?”

Patrick looks skeptical. “I’m gay?”

“Is it a question though?”

“I’m gay,” Patrick repeats more firmly. He grins.

“ _Yes,_ ” David says. He holds up his glass. “Cheers to that.” Patrick clinks his own glass against David’s.

—

When they finally drag themselves back upstairs, tipsy and yawning, David realizes that Alexis never dropped off his suitcase. “Fuck,” he groans.

“You’re welcome to use my face wash?” Patrick offers. “And I think there’s an unused toothbrush in the top drawer.

Given the choice between using generic face wash and not washing his face, David obviously goes with the lesser of the two evils; he even finds himself oddly thrilled at the domesticity of sharing toiletries. That’s probably a good sign that he’s overtired—that and the fact that he keeps yawning so widely his jaw cracks. Patrick laughs at him outright as they cross paths in the hall, Patrick on his way to the bathroom as David leaves, and David accidentally yawns right in his face. But David is pretty sure he sees Patrick’s jaw clench as he suppresses his own contagious yawn.

“Goodnight, David,” Patrick says with a sleepy smile.

“Goodnight, Patrick.”

Patrick kind reaches out, like maybe he’s going to clap David on the shoulder, and David extends an arm to reciprocate, and then without quite knowing how it happens, he finds himself in Patricks arms. He slides his arms over Patrick’s shoulders, hooking his chin there, and feels Patrick’s arms wind around his back. The Roses aren’t really huggers, and it’s been a long time since David has had this kind of physical contact with anyone. Patrick is warm, his chest is solid against David’s, his hair brushes against the side of David’s face, and David feels himself relaxing into the embrace.

It’s definitely getting too long to easily pass off as a casual goodnight hug between friends, but David can’t bring himself to pull away. It’s comfortable, _comforting_ , standing in the dimly lit hallway and just hanging on to each other. David could stay here forever.

Then, abruptly, the lantern propped next to the bathroom doorway goes out and the hallway is plunged into darkness. Patrick startles, as if suddenly waking up, and slowly lets go of David.

“Hang on,” Patrick says. David hears some rustling, and then with a click, a small flashlight turns on in Patrick’s hand.

“You were a boy scout, weren’t you,” David says, shaking his head.

“Only for a couple of years.” Patrick grins. “I quit because I had earned all my cub scouts badges and they told me I was too young to move up.”

David sighs. “Such an overachiever.” This is confirmed when Patrick pulls another flashlight out of his and hands it to David.

“I meant to give this to you anyway,” he says, and does not react at all to the disbelieving arch of David’s eyebrows. “Okay,” Patrick says. He nods decisively and takes a step toward the bathroom. “Sleep well, David.”

“Oh,” David says. “Um, you, too.”

Patrick closes the bathroom door behind him, and David forces himself to turn around, going into his bedroom and shutting the door. He’s not quite sure what just happened; the last few days have been a bizarre emotional rollercoaster that, following months of extremely limited social interaction, he is even less equipped to handle than usual. He’s pretty certain that there’s something flirtatious going on with Patrick—he might have poor self-esteem when it comes to these things, but he’s not _that_ oblivious—especially now that he knows that Patrick is, in fact, interested in men. It’s shockingly refreshing to be easing into something like this, to be getting to know each other little by little, airing out secrets and clearing up miscommunications along the way. He’s never had this before: usually it’s the opposite scenario, wherein he tumbles into bed with someone, and then they backtrack to flirtation and getting-to-know you chats. Or not.

David face-plants gratefully onto the pillows piled generously on the bed and clicks off the flashlight. He expects to lie awake, brain swirling with thoughts of Patrick, alternating between building up his own expectations and tearing them down again. But the bed is soft and wide and the two open windows create a pleasant cross breeze, and no sooner has he closed his eyes than he drifts off asleep.

—

In the morning he finds Patrick in the backyard doing laundry. The clothesline is already mostly full and it’s barely nine-thirty; David, still rubbing sleep out of his eyes, feels very inadequate.

“Morning!” Patrick calls. He straightens up from the wash basin and rolls his shoulders a few times. David’s eyes track them movement. “There’s coffee on the stove that should still be hot, and powdered milk and sugar if you want. Let me just finish up here and then we can make some breakfast?” He’s wearing his mask, but can see the corners of his eyes crinkle.

“Thanks,” David says, stifling a yawn. Coffee sounds amazing but—“Um, do you need help though?”

Patrick just waves him off. In the kitchen, he finds a steaming, and completely full, moka pot. An empty mug with a used tea bag sits next to it, and David realizes that Patrick has made coffee just for David. He bites down on a completely ridiculous smile and pours himself a cup.

As he finishes stirring in the milk and sugar, there’s a knock at the front door.

“David!” Alexis calls, emphasizing the second _d_. “I’m leaving your suitcase!”

“Oh my god,” David mutters. By the time he opens the door, Alexis is back on the sidewalk and heading away. “Excuse me!” He yells. “Would it have been so hard to drop this off before I had to sleep in _borrowed sweatpants_ and use _generic face wash_?”

“Oh my god, David, calm down!” Alexis throws up her hands and then plops them on her hips. “There was like, a lot going on last night, okay?”

“Like what, exactly?”

“Um, like, Twyla invited me over for this super cute little girls’ night picnic with Stevie and Rachel, and we—”

“ _What?_ ” David recognizes that his voice has reached a volume and a pitch that might possibly be described as “shrieking”, and he does not care at all.

“Okay, David, this has been like, a really difficult time for me! I have not had a social life in _months_ , and unlike you, I am an extrovert so it’s like, so important for me to be around other people to get energy and motivation—”

“Oh my god, I know what an extrovert is. You know what, fine. I have been going through the exact same things except maybe even worse because I have been stuck with _you_ , and now I might have been exposed to the virus because your ex-boyfriend wandered back into town after going on some kind of weird spiritual road trip with his hippie ex-girlfriend, but sure. I’m so glad you had a nice _girls’ night_.”

Alexis huffs. “David, what is your deal? You should be happy that I’m doing so well adapting to everything. Plus I had to drag that stupid bag all the way over here by myself, so you could at least say thank you."

“Thanks so much!” David says brightly. “I hope Twyla will share her exfoliant with you, because I am done letting you steal mine.”

He tries to pull the suitcase into the house and slam the door, but the effect is ruined when it’s surprisingly heavier than he anticipated. He grunts, drags it over the threshold, and then shoots Alexis one final glare before he pulls the door closed.

“I hope your Givenchy sweater gets sun-bleached, David!” He hears her yell.

David leans back against the door and folds his arms over his chest. It’s not like he wants to hang out with Rachel, exactly, and he also recognizes that she does seem like an objectively nice person. But somehow the thought of his best friend and his sister, like, going off and hanging out behind his back and—what, are they all friends now? While he’s stuck here, like some weird interloper in her house, trying to figure out what is going on with his feelings for—

Patrick pops his head through the doorway from the kitchen. “Everything okay?” He asks. “I might have, uh, overheard some of that, but I promise I wasn’t eavesdropping. I’m pretty sure some people in Elmdale heard you too.”

“ _Oh_ my god.” David drops his face into his hands, then looks back up at Patrick. “The worst part is she didn’t even remember that today’s my birthday.”

“It’s your birthday?” Patrick raises his eyebrows and smiles. “Happy birthday! How old are we?”

David glares. Maybe Patrick thinks he’s being cute, but the whole point of David’s careful skincare regimen is to ensure that people will always assume he’s at least two years younger than he is. Sure, he likes Patrick, but they’d have to be married before he’d willingly reveal his age. Maybe not even then.

Patrick doesn’t seem to take David’s silence personally or seriously. “Well, we’ll have to celebrate later,” he says with a grin.

“You really don’t have to do that,” David replies. It’s not like anyone else has bothered recently. His last few birthdays have mostly been spent treating himself to a slice of mediocre cake at the Cafe, a face mask, and an evening reading while trying his best to ignore Alexis. Last year he and Stevie had gotten pleasantly drunk at the Wobbly Elm, but that had been pure coincidence because Stevie didn’t know it was his birthday.

“No, I want to,” Patrick says. “I think it’s more important than ever to recognize special occasions. We’re all trying to find meaning these days, right?”

David grimaces at the earnest sentiment. He’s not entirely sure he feels like celebrating another year in a life that now, if he’s lucky, will consist entirely of menial labor to try and build their depressing little town into a self-sustaining post-apocalyptical commune. But Patrick is watching him with bright eyes, and David can practically see him planning out the coming day, so he forces himself to nod.

“Okay, we can… we can do that.”

Patrick waves David off to lug his suitcase upstairs, unpack, and finally take care of his face and hair. He takes his time, luxuriating in the process and feeling more himself after each step. Finally, he puts on his own T-shirt and sweatpants (others may not see a difference, but his are Rick Owens, thank you very much) and finds Patrick in the kitchen, apparently… canning?

“ _How_ do you know how to do all of these things though,” David complains.

Patrick wipes down a jar of tomatoes and shrugs. “I liked to follow my mom around in the kitchen when I was little.” His smile goes a bit crooked. “Also before the internet went down, I watched a _lot_ of Youtube tutorials on anything that seemed like it could be even remotely useful.”

David groans, because _of course_. Patrick reacted to the impeding collapse of civilization by trying to cram as much knowledge as possible into his head that might make it easier to survive. David, on the other hand, had spent the last days of the internet frantically downloading e-books and back episodes of _The Savage Lovecast_ , completely failing to consider how he would keep himself occupied once his phone inevitably died.

There are other chores to take care of—as it turns out, maintaining a habitable living space and a steady supply of food is basically a full-time job without the benefit of technology—but by late afternoon, Patrick declares it enough for the day, and they find themselves curled on opposite ends of the sofa. Patrick is engrossed in his novel, which, when David catches a glimpse of the cover, reveals itself to be _The Hunger Games_. David has been trying, mostly unsuccessfully, to concentrate, but has been spending more time watching Patrick’s face than reading his own book. Patrick’s eyes are flicking across the pages and every so often he absently licks his thumb to turn the page more easily. David gives up on reading.

“Isn’t that a little on the nose?” He asks, gesturing to the book in Patrick’s hands. When Patrick starts a little David briefly feels bad for interrupting him, but only briefly. “I also didn’t think YA fiction would be your genre.”

Patrick has recovered, pulling himself back from the Arena to Schitt’s Creek. He raises an eyebrow. “What did you think I read? Strictly nonfiction?”

He’s right, but David isn’t about to admit it. “Are you Team Gale or Team Peeta though?”

Patrick rolls his eyes even as he says, “Team Peeta, obviously.”

David smirks. “Me too. Something about how like, unassuming but capable he is. It’s very sexy.”

“Okay, David, you do realize that in the book they are literally children, right?”

“Oh my god whatever! It just seems like, a little _too real_ to be reading that at this particular moment in time.” Patrick reaches over and plucks David’s book out of his hands, holding it up so they can both see the cover. “No, that’s different,” David protests. “ _Never Let Me Go_ is about clones, which has nothing to do with anything we’re dealing with. Yet. Oh my god, what if—”

“Maybe we should both stop reading dystopian literature for a bit,” Patrick muses. “Come on, birthday boy, we can get started on your birthday dinner.”

“Okay, that is an absolutely unacceptable thing to say to anyone over the age of five, and even then only if you say it to your actual child.”

“There’s more wine?”

“Lead the way,” David relents.

—

Sometime during the day, and David has no idea how he managed it, Patrick sneakily made a peach skillet crisp. He has also procured, from god knows where, a handful of small candles, and arranged them symmetrically across the crisp. Although David refuses Patrick’s offer to sing “happy birthday” in no uncertain terms—that’s a ritual that’s embarrassing even with the anonymity of a crowd, and he has no desire to sit through Patrick singing by himself, directly to David—he is completely charmed and feels oddly emotional about the gesture. Historically, any nice things that anyone did on his birthday were the direct result of him dropping very heavy hints or paying for them. Usually it was a bit of both.

He blows out the candles and grins up at Patrick through the faint tendrils of smoke that drift up. “I feel like I keep having to thank you for things,” he says quietly.

“No, it”—Patrick clears his throat a bit—“it was nothing.”

David has shamelessly plucked a candle out of the crisp to suck the sugary fruit filling off of the bottom. He can’t help but groan a bit with pleasure. “Okay, this,” he says, brandishing the candle at Patrick, “is not nothing. So thank you.”

Patrick just smiles at David and lets him spoon the crisp out onto their plates.

In what is starting to feel like a routine, they clean up their dishes and head into the living room. David sets up the lantern and candles, and Patrick swipes something from the bookcase. When David sees what it is, he sighs.

“We’re really going to play cards like a couple of little old ladies? Should I go get my hearing aid?”

Patrick shuffles deftly. “I prefer to think of it as a summer camp thing. Sitting around the campfire, waiting for lunchtime, sneakily playing in our cabins after lights-out…” He trails off when he looks up at David’s doubtful face. “Didn’t you go to camp, David?”

“Yes,” David sniffs. “I went to the best summer art institute on the east coast. The closest thing to playing cards was when one girl did a performance art piece where she built a life-size house of cards and trapped herself inside. She stayed in there for five days until they had to destroy the house to get her out and take her to the hospital for a saline drip.”

Patrick blinks at him. “Yeah, I don’t think that counts as summer camp, David.” He starts to deal. “So I’m going to assume you’ve never played Egyptian Ratscrew before?”

“Played _what now_?”

Despite the distasteful name, David gets _very_ into the game. They sit cross-legged on the floor with the pile of cards between them, moving quickly to play their cards and snag their wins, and slapping with increasing abandon.

“Fuck!” David hisses, as Patrick’s hand darts in and claims a pile that’s practically half of the deck _just_ faster than David’s. His hand lands solidly on top of Patrick’s and he glares at him. “You’re cheating."

“David, you can literally see the evidence that I won,” Patrick says, gesturing with his free hand. “How could I possibly be cheating?”

“Ugh, I don’t know, I just know that you _are_ ,” David says. He never claimed to be a gracious loser, and he’s down to just a few mediocre cards in his pile. Patrick is going to win. It’s embarrassing. Also rude, because this is still David’s birthday.

Patrick just looks at him dubiously. The light catches on his dimple, on the little shadowy laugh lines around his eyes. David doesn’t move his hand. Neither does Patrick.

“I’m weirdly glad to be stuck in quarantine with you, David,” Patrick says finally.

David swallows and tries to bite down on his smile. “That is a really lovely thing to say.”

“And I’m so glad, too, Patrick,” Patrick continues, voice teasing, “because otherwise, I would be eating canned beans in a sad motel room or sleeping on a futon in a barn with—”

“ _Okay,_ ” David interrupts. “Um, I am also weirdly glad to be stuck with you, Patrick.” Except there’s nothing weird about it: he is acutely aware of why he is enjoying their current arrangement, and frankly it wouldn’t matter if he was eating beans and sleeping on the floor, as long as he was still doing it with Patrick.

Patrick grins at him, then lets his expression slip into something more serious. His hand is warm beneath David’s. Slowly, incrementally, David leans toward him, over the pile of cards between them. Patrick’ doesn’t move, but his eyes stay fixed on David.

David’s heart is hammering in his chest, and it’s completely unreasonable to be this worked up about the possibility of a kiss. But he can’t remember the last time he had a first kiss like this: someone with whom he’d spent days and weeks trading flirtatious barbs and charged glances, building up to this kind of quiet, intimate precipice. It’s just him and Patrick, the flickering candlelight, and the one point of contact at their hands.

David draws closer, sees Patricks eyelids flutter closed, and, finally, presses his lips to Patricks. He feels, rather than hears, Patrick’s sharp intake of breath as his mouth opens against David’s and he kisses back.

David lifts his hand off of Patrick’s only so he can slide his thumb along his cheek, cup his face and pull him closer. There are sparks bursting inside David’s eyelids, he can feel Patrick’s pulse racing under his palm. Patrick’s mouth is hot and soft and— _god,_ doing things to David that he didn’t know were possible just from one kiss. He presses closer, feels Patrick’s hand slide up his arm to his neck, the back of his head, and he shivers. When he runs his thumb over Patrick’s pulse point, Patrick moans into his mouth.

They break apart, just far enough to breathe, and David tries valiantly to get himself under control. He feels like he’s actually panting, which cannot be a cute look. Patrick is lightly tracing the line of David’s jaw with a callused finger, and that is definitely not helping his composure.

“Patrick,” David sighs helplessly.

“Thank you, David,” Patrick whispers. He replaces his hand with his mouth, pressing a series of small kisses along David’s neck.

“What?” David gasps. “For what?”

Patrick sits back to look at David, and David realizes he’s ended up clutching at Patrick’s T-shirt with both hands. He makes a conscious effort to release him and drop his hands back in his own lap.

“I’ve wanted to do that since the first time I saw you,” Patrick says in a low voice, and seriously, David is going to die, right here and right now. “And,” Patrick continues, “I’m not sure I would have been brave enough to, uh, make the first move. So thank you. For making that happen for us.”

And that’s just—David shakes his head a little, trying to clear it, trying to buy himself a second to figure out what he can possibly say to that. In the past month, David has never seen Patrick encounter a challenge that he didn’t tackle head-on, immediately and methodically. David had been pretty sure that there actually wasn’t anything Patrick couldn’t figure out how to do. And David—David has never been the brave one. Reckless and self-sabotaging, maybe, but not brave.

“Well,” David says, and his voice comes out a bit hoarse. “Fortunately, I am a very generous person.”

Patrick gives a surprised laugh. “Oh, is that what I saw when you went ahead and finished the crisp without asking if I wanted more? Your generosity?”

David rolls his eyes and kisses him again to show Patrick just how generous he can be with his tongue. He thinks he’s succeeding, based on the noises Patrick is making and the way he’s gripping David’s hips, but it’s hard to be sure because the feeling of Patrick’s hands digging into his lower back is not terribly conducive to thinking straight.

“Okay wait,” David says, “Since the first time you saw me? Really? Were you that impressed by my complete lack of knowledge about anything to do with plants?”

“Oh, um, well,” Patrick says. The blush that’s been creeping slowly over his face and down his neck as they kiss gets a bit darker; David desperately wants to push away his shirt collar and chase its spread down to his chest. “That actually wasn’t the first time I saw you?”

David arches an eyebrow. “You might want to elaborate before I decide just how creepy _that_ is.”

Patrick huffs, and David softens his words—wry though they were—by giving in to his impulses and working a hand beneath the neckline of Patrick’s T-shirt. The muscle of his shoulders is firm, but his skin is soft and hot.

“I saw you at the first town hall,” Patrick confesses. “With your family. I, um, am actually very relieved that you didn’t catch me staring. I don’t think I was very subtle. _Rachel_ certainly didn’t think so.”

David really doesn’t want to talk about Rachel right now, but it is oddly gratifying to think of Patrick, so calm and controlled, unable to look away from David.

“Actually, in the interest of full disclosure,” Patrick says. “I should tell you—um. It wasn’t a coincidence that we were paired up together.”

“ _Oh_?” David says.

“I might have asked Ronnie to put me on the same rotation as you. Uh, _pleaded_ might be a better word. I don’t think she likes me very much.”

David can’t help the delighted smirk that stretches across his face. “Wow. So I guess you had this all planned out. And now that you have me where you want me”—he punctuates his statement with a squeeze to Patrick’s shoulders a little shimmy of his own—“what do you want to do with me?”

Patrick looks at him very seriously, maintaining eye contact as he reaches his hands up to catch both of David’s, turning their palms together, threading his fingers through David’s, and then using his grasp to pull David forward to kiss him.

David goes willingly, reveling in the heat rushing through his body, the sparks of energy where their hands and mouths are pressed together. God, he _wants_ —wants to feel Patrick’s strong hands and the rough callouses on his skin, wants to shove Patrick’s shirt up and trace the lines of his muscles with his tongue, wants to to know what those strong thighs look like when they’re squeezed around his waist.

David releases Patrick’s hands and swings his legs around and under him so he can push Patrick back against the couch, kneeling slightly over Patrick and running his hands over Patrick’s chest and shoulders. Patrick gasps as he tilts his face up, chasing David’s mouth, curling his fingers through the short hairs at the back of David’s neck.

“Fuck,” Patrick gasps, when they break apart. “David, I want to do so many things with you. I want to do everything with you.” His eyes are glittering in the low light, face flushed, chest rising and falling as he tries to catch his breath.

David remembers belatedly that this is, in fact, the answer to a question he had asked. “Anything you want,” he says, much more truthfully than he usually would. He’s made a habit of letting people do want they want with him, or to him, whether or not it’s what he wants; sometimes it’s fun, other times less so, but he has historically gone along with nearly anything. But this time, when he says it to Patrick, he’s pretty sure he means it. Anything Patrick wants, David wants to give to him.

Patrick tugs a little on David’s shoulder, gives him a little push to encourage him to sit down next to Patrick, side by side, shoulders pressed together. He takes David’s hand again, like he doesn’t want to stop touching him even for a minute.

“So, um,” Patrick says, and David’s breath catches briefly in his throat. Had he misread this horribly? Is Patrick already regretting this? Do they need to backtrack? “In case you hadn’t guessed, based on, you know, the fact that I didn’t really know I was gay until recently—and David,” Patrick interrupts himself, turns fully toward David, and gently clasps either side of his face, “I am _so_ gay.” He looks so earnest, like he thinks maybe David doesn’t believe him, and David bites down on a smile.

“So yeah,” Patrick says, “I have obviously never done this before. With a guy. And I might need to just take it a little slow.”

Normally, David would crack a joke, try to deflect any serious emotions or vulnerable conversations. But this is Patrick, and David knows him well enough to know that it’s hard for him to admit that he doesn’t know what he’s doing, or whether he’s doing something well. David can power through the discomfort and be sincere and open in return.

“We can take it as slow as you want,” David tells him. “Whatever you want. Whatever you’re comfortable with.” He punctuates it with a gentle squeeze to Patrick’s hand.

Patrick squeezes back and leans in for another kiss. Despite the adrenaline coursing through him, David can feel the exhaustion of the day catching up to him. He’s always tired, these days; every day is full, and his body still doesn’t seem to have caught up to the level of constant physical exertion that is now required of it. The kisses he and Patrick trade get slower and lazier, until finally Patrick has to break away and smother a yawn.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry,” he starts saying, as David’s laughter bubbles up out of him. He presses a chaste kiss to the side of Patrick’s mouth.

“Let’s go to bed,” David says, pushing himself to his feet and reaching down a hand to Patrick. “I mean—separately. In separate beds. Assuming that’s what you want. Uh, for now?”

Now it’s Patrick’s turn to laugh. He wraps his arms around David and kind of smushes his face into David’s neck. “Yeah, I think separate beds. For now. Is that okay?”

“Anything you want,” David repeats. On any other night, with anyone else, he’d push, knowing that this was his one window for a hookup, and by the next day everyone would be sober and uninterested. But Patrick is different, for so many reasons. And David, in spite of himself, thinks that he might actually _trust_ him. Whatever they’re doing here, it isn’t just for one night.

—

David follows the heavenly scent of coffee downstairs the next morning, and finds Patrick flipping pancakes.

“Oh my god,” he groans. “I’m finally going to gain the quarantine fifteen. It’s not fair.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll put you to work later,” Patrick says mildly, sliding a pancake off the griddle and onto the precarious pile he’s already finished.

David’s eyes widen as he starts to imagine just what _putting him to work_ could conceivably entail, but then Patrick turns around and gives him a tentative smile, and all David can do is grin back.

“Hi,” Patrick says.

“Hi,” David echoes. He’s not really sure what the protocol is for greeting the guy you really like when he’s made you breakfast after you made out the night before and then went and slept in separate rooms. Patrick’s hands are still full, so David steps up beside him and is about to give him a kiss on the cheek, except that Patrick sees him coming and turns his head so it lands on his lips. He gives David a cheeky grin.

“Um, so somebody’s been busy.” David gestures to the pancakes, the steaming coffee, the pile of used and discarded teabags next to Patrick’s mugs.

Patrick shrugs. “Couldn’t sleep. Been up since five.”

And despite how confident David was feeling last night, he can’t help but ask— “Regrets?” They could still come back from this, he thinks desperately. It’s not too late, they could be friends, it would probably be fine.

“What? No,” Patrick says immediately. “Why would I have regrets?”

He sounds so genuinely confused that David almost wants to cry. Everyone regrets David sooner or later, whether it takes one night or one month. David blinks a few times and tries to shrug casually.

“Just habit to ask?” He says lightly.

Patrick shakes his head and steps toward David. “David,” he says in a low voice that David can practically feel vibrate through his body, “I promise you I only have one regret, and that is that it took us until last night to, um.” Rather than finish his sentence, Patrick just leans up a bit to kiss David again. They both end up smiling a bit too much for it to be a very good kiss, but it still makes heat blossom in David’s chest.

At the same time, they catch a whiff of something burning, and Patrick pulls away with a curse to rescue the crispy pancake on the griddle.

—

The days of quarantine pass as they alternate housework with boredom, the whole time orbiting each other ever more closely. In the mornings, they clean and cook, put the solar lanterns out to soak up the gray sunlight, work on stocking the pantry with dried or pickled foods. In the afternoons, they read or nap (or both), curled up on the sofa or with their legs tangled up between them. Every evening, they drag themselves to separate bedrooms.

David is not nearly as frustrated by this arrangement as he thought he might be. Maybe, selfishly, it’s partly because not only is Patrick unable to run away, but there is also no one else in the house. For the time being, there’s no threat of ghosting or betrayal.

But it’s also so different in other ways from other relationships that David has started. Moving slowly, working together, spending time talking—he _likes_ Patrick in a way that feels completely foreign to the short-lived attraction he’s had for so many other people, and he thinks Patrick likes him, too.

One night, David bolts awake to a rumbling boom, so loud he thinks it must be in the room with him. There’s a flash of light, and he thinks, ludicrously, having never been in anything resembling a war zone, that they’re getting bombed. It takes him several long moments to wake up enough to remember where he is, calm his racing heart, and hear the gentle drumming on the roof above his head. He disentangles himself from the sheets, and is standing at the window gazing outside when there’s a knock on the bedroom door.

Patrick slips into the room, gives David a sheepish smile, and comes over to tuck himself under the arm that David holds out. They watch the sheets of rain without speaking, tired and disoriented and amazed.

“It’s been so long,” Patrick says at last. “I think I’d forgotten what rain sounds like.”

“The thunder scared the shit out of me,” David confesses.

Patrick laughs and twists around to face David, threading his arms around his back. “Me too,” he says, voice muffled in David’s chest. “I was really afraid of thunderstorms when I was little.”

David can’t imagine Patrick as a vulnerable child scared of loud noises; in his mind, little Patrick was always bossy and precocious. But he likes this new information, carefully folds it in with all the bits and pieces he’s learning about the very unexpected man in his arms.

“Do you,” David starts, hoping it’s not pushing too much, “do you want to stay?” He’s prepared to elaborate, or nuance the offer, or walk it back entirely, but Patrick nods immediately.

“Yes,” Patrick says. Then he looks up at David. “But just to sleep?”

David grins. “I will keep my hands to myself,” he promises.

Patrick lifts his eyebrows. “I mean, you don’t have to keep them _completely_ to yourself.” He leans in and up, pressing his mouth to David’s and relaxing against him.

David is all ready to keep bantering, a snarky retort on the tip of his tongue, but then Patrick’s tongue is in his mouth instead, and all he can do is steer them over toward the bed. Patrick flops onto his back with a soft _oof_ , and David climbs over him, bracketing Patrick’s thighs between his knees and his shoulders between his hands. He looks down at Patrick, who is breathing heavily, and leans down slowly. He kisses Patrick gently, then again, until Patrick drags his teeth across David’s bottom lip and the kisses become decidedly less gentle. When Patrick’s hips jerk upward, David automatically grinds down, and they both gasp the the spark that the friction sends through them. David presses himself against Patrick, thrusting a little, trying desperately to hold it together and gauge Patrick’s reaction.

“Okay?” David breathes, and he feels Patrick nod.

Patrick’s breathing is growing harsh, and then he gasps—“oh _fuck_ ”—and goes limp beneath David.

They both freeze for a moment, and then Patrick groans and covers his face with both hands. “Oh my god,” he whispers. “Oh my god. I’m so sorry David. Oh my god.”

David shifts his weight onto one elbow and rolls onto his side to face Patrick. He uses his free hand to peel Patrick’s fingers away from his face.

“Um excuse me, none of that,” David says. “No apologizing. I am actually flattered.”

“I have literally never come that fast,” Patrick says hoarsely. “I didn’t even know that I _could_.”

“Okay, well, now I’m _very_ flattered,” David says in a low voice.

Patrick swats at him half-heartedly, then leaves his hand where it lands on David’s cheek. “Um, can I—” he vaguely gestures towards David’s pajama pants, where he is still obviously very hard.

David can’t help but lean in to kiss him. “You really don’t have to do that,” he says truthfully. “But do you mind if I just—” He starts reaching a hand below his own waistband.

“Yes,” Patrick breathes, tracking the movement. “David, oh my god.” He presses kisses along David’s jawline, breathes hotly over his ear, and then starts sucking a line down David’s neck, as David brings himself off nearly as quickly as Patrick.

“You are a menace,” David pants, as Patrick’s tongue does something absolutely filthy to his earlobe, “and you’ve been holding out on me.”

Patrick gives his neck one last gentle bite, then flops onto his back next to David. “I think I’m done holding out,” he says faintly. “I can’t believe sex can be this good.”

“Oh, Patrick,” David says, “just you wait.” He muffles Patrick’s indignant retort with his mouth, and he could probably stay here kissing Patrick forever, but he’s becoming increasingly conscious of the sticky, drying mess in his boxer briefs.

David reluctantly pushes himself upright, drags Patrick out of bed with him. “Clean up and come right back,” he instructs.

By the time Patrick returns, David has changed and is half-asleep. When he feels the mattress dip, he rolls towards Patrick and extends an arm. As soon as Patrick settles in and presses his back to David’s chest, David drifts to the sound of rain and Patrick’s steady breathing.

—

Two days later, there’s a knock on the front door mid-morning. Ronnie, half-shouting through her mask from down the sidewalk, explains that there’s been world from Elm Glen of supplies, that someone from Schitt’s Creek needs to go over asap if they want in, and that seeing as Patrick and David are already quarantined anyway, the town council voted to send them.

“So,” David says slowly, inching a little closer to Patrick, “when we come back, we would have to start over with two more weeks of quarantine?”

“And, uh, did Rachel agree to that?” Patrick adds. He presses a palm to the small of David’s back, where Ronnie ostensibly can’t see it.

Ronnie looks back and forth between them appraisingly. “Rachel agreed. Seems like she and Twyla have really hit it off. Although maybe not quite as well as the two of you have.”

“What does that—” David says, just as Patrick starts sputtering, “Oh, it’s not—” and Ronnie just shakes her head at them.

“I don’t know exactly what all they’ve got over in Elm Glen, but you just haul back as much of it as you can carry,” Ronnie says. “I know the mayor, so ask for Jackie and tell her Ronnie sent you. Don’t take any shit from anyone, got it?”

After she leaves, David and Patrick close the front door and stare at each other for a moment.

“Patrick,” David says carefully. “Does Rachel know about us?”

Patrick blushes very gratifyingly. “Um, I think she’ll be surprised that anything actually happened. But not, uh, surprised that I wanted to…” He trails off and peeks at David from the corner of his eye. “When I told you that I’d only said I was gay out loud twice? And the second time was to you? The first time was to Rachel.” Patrick shrugs and grins a bit wider. “Obviously I admitted nothing, but she was not at all fooled by the fact that my crisis of sexuality directly coincided with spending hours every day with you.”

“Oh, is this a crisis?” David teases, gently shoving at Patrick’s shoulders until his back hits the door.

“Well, not anymore,” Patrick says. “At least I don’t think so?”

David kisses him firmly. “Not a crisis,” he agrees. “And you somehow lucked into having the most bafflingly understanding ex-turned-wing-woman.”

“Eh, luck has nothing to do with it,” Patrick says easily. “Rachel has always been amazing, even if I didn’t want to marry her. If we ever get out of quarantine again, I think you’ll like her.” He preempts David’s own crisis of insecurity by wrapping his arms firmly around David’s waist and pulling him in for a kiss that leaves no room for doubt.

“So,” Patrick says when they break apart. “Are you ready for a road trip?”

—

Given the circumstances, the trip to Elm Glen is shockingly uneventful. Ronnie and Roland let them through the gates, with strict instructions to be back in five hours tops, and, for the first time in over a year, David is heading out past the Schitt’s Creek limits. The sign is still there, although the parenthetical disclaimer has disappeared; David supposes it’s not like anyone is coming out of their way to see this D-list tourist attraction anymore, so it hardly matters either way.

They’re over halfway there, just cresting a hill, when David hears something.

“Is that the car?” He asks, craning his neck to try and figure out where it’s coming from. “Is something broken? Oh my god, are we going to break down in the middle of—”

Patrick has gone even paler than usual, which is not at all reassuring, until David sees him squeeze a hand into the front pocket of his jeans and pull out a vibrating cell phone.

“Okay, _what_?” David is aware that he’s kind of shrieking, but he can’t seem to care. “How is your phone ringing? I haven’t had service in over a year. Wait, how is your phone _on_? And _who_ is even calling you?”

Patrick breathes deeply through his nose, keeping his eyes carefully on the road the whole time, despite the fact that there is precisely zero traffic, and slowly extends his hand toward David. “Can you look for me, please?” His voice is strained.

David obediently looks down, and does an immediate double-take. “It’s, um. It says _Mom_.”

Patrick hits the brakes so fast that David has to brace himself against the glove compartment, snatches his hand back and scrambles to accept the call.

“Mom?” He says breathlessly. “Mom, are you there?”

David is suddenly acutely aware that he is inadvertently intruding on Patrick’s first conversation with his parents in a year. He knows Patrick is close to them, but not much more than that; David suspects that they never really talked about it because it was something too painful for Patrick to think about. And now here they are: Patrick is finally reunited with his family, and David is stuck sitting awkwardly two feet away from him. He’s certainly not getting out of the car, but he doesn’t have so much as an earbud to pop in for plausible deniability, so he settles for just gazing resolutely out the window with his body angled as far away from Patrick as possible without throwing pulling something in his neck.

Patrick doesn’t seem to notice or care either way. He’s speaking rapidly and excitedly, as David tries to just let the indistinct shapes of words wash over him. He can’t help but hear Rachel’s name a few times, and he does his best to just breathe through it.

When Patrick finally hangs up, David gives it a beat and then slowly twists himself back to center. He catches Patrick make an aborted movement like he’s going to drop his face into his hands, stop himself, and instead fold his hands tightly in his lap as he blinks hard twice. After a moment, he glances over at David with a shaky, lopsided grin.

“They’re okay,” he says quietly, and all David can do is lean across the console to kiss him.

Patrick keeps his hand tangled in David’s sweater as he relates the conversation, and David knows he’s in trouble because he _lets_ Patrick stretch out the neckline without a second thought.

“It sounds a lot like Schitt’s Creek,” David says after. “Only maybe better, because it doesn’t have Roland.”

Patrick snorts. “Yeah, it’s a pretty unremarkable place. Definitely no Schitts.” He raises an eyebrow at David. “But also no Roses, so.”

“Oh, okay then,” David says. He hesitates, then, because there is an unavoidable question that he thinks he needs to ask, but he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

“So,” David says, drawing out the vowel a little bit. “Do you—I mean, are you thinking—is this something that—”

“I want to stay in Schitt’s Creek,” Patrick says, thankfully interrupting David’s fumbling. “I don’t know if—is that crazy? Not to go back to my parents? I just—” He purses his lips a bit, the way David has come to know he does when he’s searching for the right words.

After a moment, David gives his shoulder a little nudge. “You just what?” He thinks he’s doing an excellent job of being calm and patient, given the circumstances.

Patrick grins a little, then leans forward to bury his face in David’s stretched-out sweater. “I just want to stay with you?” He whispers.

“Is that a question?” David whispers back, and bites his lip when he feels Patrick shake his head against his shoulder.

“But,” Patrick says, lifting his head and squeezing David’s shoulders. “I, um, I think I should tell Rachel. That I talked to them. That her parents are okay, too. And,”Patrick adds more softly, “that she can go home if she wants to.”

The certainty on his face contrasts with his hesitant tone and reassures David. “Do you think that’s what she’ll want?” He asks. “Because apparently she’s now besties with Twyla and my sister, and Alexis is a _very_ demanding friend. She might not even let Rachel leave.”

The teasing works, and Patrick’s smile grows. “Well, if that’s the case, maybe Alexis can convince Rachel to move into the motel with her.”

David shoves down the weird fluttering in his gut at the implication, roundabout though it may be, that Patrick would like David to keep living in his house. Under normal, pre-apocalypse, circumstances, that’s the kind of admission that would send David spiraling under the certainty that it was too good, too much, too son, and would never last. This, however, is different. _Patrick_ is different. It’s only a matter of time before David’s private, cautious optimism bursts into something more.

—

The next morning, Patrick is packing a bag and David is hovering overing him like an anxious moth ( _ew, no_ ).

“Okay, but are you _sure_ you’ll be all right? What if there are bandits, or feral moose, or—”

“David,” Patrick interrupts, “I want you to take a deep breath and play back the words that have just come out of your mouth. It’s a four-hour drive. It will be fine.”

David can’t seem to stop fluttering his hands across Patrick’s back, and shoulders, and biceps. “I know, I know, you are very capable. I just”—he grimaces, because he knows very well that whatever situation might arise en route, Patrick is far better equipped to handle it than David ever has been or ever will be “—just, I know you said you didn’t need me to come, but do you—do you, um, _want_ me to come? Because I can. I would.”

David has no idea what his face is doing, but it makes Patrick’s go all soft and fond, so it can’t be _too_ bad.

“Thank you, David,” Patrick says. “Really. And I want you to know,” he says, pausing his packing to turn his sincere gaze entirely toward David, “it’s not that I don’t want you to come. I would—I actually really wish you could,” he admits. “But you know it’s not that—it’s not smart for more people to go than necessary. You don’t need to take that kind of risk.”

Patrick bites his lip a little, eyes flicking down and back to David. David’s chest clenches in a painfully good way.

“Anyway,” Patrick continues, “this will give me a chance to, um, talk to my parents. Before they meet you. Which I, uh, really hope they do someday.”

“Oh,” David breathes. He’s never met the parents of anyone he’s dated. That’s not something anyone has ever even said to him before, that they’d _like_ him to meet their parents, and it’s—a _lot_. “I hope so too,” he says, even though it terrifies him, because it’s true and because it keeps him from saying anything else.

Patrick zips up his backpack and stands, and David’s heart does something erratic with the way he’s suddenly right in David’s space.

“So,” Patrick says conversationally, winding his arms around David’s waist. “I’ll have to quarantine when I get there. And then I’ll probably spend a week with my parents. And then I’ll have to quarantine again when I come back.”

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” David says, sliding his hands over Patrick’s shoulders. He’s really been trying not thinking about it. It’s low-key terrifying how quickly he’s gotten accustomed to having Patrick around all the time, in arm’s reach for soft, reassuring touches or strangely intimate, chase kisses—or less chaste kisses. It’s comfortable, _comforting_.

“It’s going to be a very long time,” Patrick says seriously, eyes wide and sincere. “So you should probably kiss me now, while you still can.”

“I mean, twist my arm,” David says, but he’s already leaning in to comply, feeling Patrick’s smile against his own.

When they’re interrupted by the doorbell, David is already regretting everything about the coming weeks. He knows, logically, in the abstract, that this is absolutely the right thing to do: Patrick gets to see his parents, Rachel gets to go home, and everyone will be happier when Patrick gets back. Eventually. After his quarantine.

That doesn’t make it any easier to let go of Patrick, who eventually has to gently pry David’s hands away.

“Come on, David,” he says, with an incongruous bro-y clap to the shoulder. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

“Okay, but do we _have_ to—”

Patrick kisses him again. “You know I’m going to miss you, right?”

“Will you though?” David can tell he’s whining a little, and he doesn’t know how to make it stop.

“Don’t push it,” Patrick responds, arching an eyebrow. “But I really will,” he relents.

David bites down on a smile and lets Patrick take his hand and drag him downstairs. It’s not perfect, but it will have to be enough for the next couple of weeks.

—

David spends a day, then two, then three, vibrating with anxiety until Alexis finally snaps.

“ _David_ , seriously, can you just _sit still_ for like, five minutes? Is that so much to ask? You’re like a hyperactive squirrel.”

“I hope your last bottle of foundation spills, Alexis,” David snaps back. “What am I even supposed to do, anyway? My boyfriend is out there, just, _out there_ , on the road, alone with his ex-fiancee who is basically Barbie-doll-sized, and _anything_ could happen and I would never even know because we don’t even have cell phones anymore and— _what_.”

Alexis is gaping at him, eyes wide and sparkling. “Oh my _god,_ David, what did you just say?”

“I _said_ ,” David huffs, because honestly, Patrick’s life is on the line and Alexis can’t even be bothered to listen to the words coming out of David’s mouth for two minutes? Rude. “I said that Patrick could be dead in a ditch being eaten by a bear and I would never even—”

“Um, no, David,” Alexis interrupts, and David is seriously going to lose his mind. “That is _not_ what you said. _You_ called Patrick your _boyfriend_.” She is grinning maniacally, and it is frankly unsettling.

“What?” David says, because _no_ , he most certainly did not. “No, I most certainly did _not_ call him my—that word,” he hisses, “because that would be, um, just premature and inappropriate and, it’s not like I even, and we haven’t _talked_ about—oh my god,” he trails off.

“This is _so_ exciting for you, David,” Alexis chirps, clapping her hands together. “Your boyfriend! So cute! Just wait until I tell—”

“Okay, no, absolutely not,” David gasps, whirling on her. “No, no, no, if you so much as _think_ about telling _anyone_ , especially before Patrick comes back and I actually talk to him—I’ll—I will—”

“Calm down, David,” Alexis says, unperturbed. “I won’t tell anyone he’s your _boyfriend_.” With a Cheshire grin, she boops him on the nose and flounces out of the room.

“Don’t touch my face!” David shouts after her, before stalking off to find Stevie and her stash of wine.

—

David starts staying at Patrick’s, because Aleix is just being _rude_ , and it’s not like anyone else is there anyway. It’s definitely not because he likes the way everything smells like Patrick. Especially the sheets, which probably need to be changed, but laundry is just so much effort now. But the fact that David misses Patrick has nothing to do with him putting it off.

He channels his anxiety, and other feelings he refuses to look at too closely, into keeping the house clean, and the yard tidy, and the little vegetable patch growing happily. If you had told the David Rose of five years ago that one day in the not-too-distant future, he would willingly spend his days doing manual labor for absolutely zero recognition, he would have laughed in your face, or possibly just glared and walked away. But now, David finds himself shockingly satisfied by the simple tasks and the easy feeling of accomplishment. Above all, he is undeniably content in the knowledge that this is something he is doing for Patrick.

Patrick, who has done so many things for David with zero expectation of anything in return. Patrick, who may or may not be David’s—David’s boyfriend. Patrick, who is one of the best people David has ever known, and whom he finds himself missing more desperately every day.

David is fucked, and he knows it.

—

Twenty-three days—not that _anyone_ is counting—after Patrick’s little Toyota drove away from Schitt’s Creek, it trundles back into town. David, much to his indignation, doesn’t find out Patrick is back until almost a full hour later, at which point he drops everything to run over to Patrick’s house.

Well, he does a quick 20-minute mask to make sure the visible part of his skin is glowing even from 12 feet away, and then he walks as briskly as he can without breaking a sweat, but still.

As soon as he turns onto Patrick’s street, his eyes snap to the house, and his heart lurches alarmingly at the sight of Patrick sitting on his porch. As David draws closer, he starts hearing music, and then he realizes with alarm that it’s coming from the _guitar_ that Patrick is cradling.

David is a couple of houses away by the time that Patrick looks up, and David sees him freeze, then gently put down the guitar to stand up and watch David approach. David slows to a stop on the sidewalk, facing Patrick on the porch at the other end of the path to the house, and for a moment they just look at each other.

“Hi,” David says eventually. He can’t see Patrick’s face beneath the mask, and they’re too far apart to even see Patrick’s eyes, crinkle, but it doesn’t matter: David knows exactly what soft smile Patrick is giving him. David knows his own face has gone soft and fond in spite of himself, in spite of the face that Patrick can’t see him either.

“Hi,” Patrick says, fond and gentle, voice carrying easily through the still, heavy air.

They keep standing there, just gazing at each other across the distance. It’s ridiculous, David is fully aware, but he just doesn’t know what else to do. Seeing Patrick again after weeks apart is like—well, like nothing he’s ever felt before. In all of his previous relationships, three weeks apart was a breakup.

David clasps his hands behind his back, and kind of twists his legs together, and finally he has to just sit down in the middle of the sidewalk because otherwise there’s just no way he can keep himself from going over to Patrick.

Patrick huffs out a little laugh at David, cross-legged on the ground in his nicest remaining Rick Owens joggers, and god, all David wants is to kiss him.

“How was it?” David finally asks, very belatedly remembering some part of his manners.

“It was really good, actually,” Patrick says. “I hadn’t quite realized how much I—I don’t know, I think I was a lot more worried than I knew, you know? I hadn’t let myself think about it much. But just seeing the town—it was such a relief, you know?”

David doesn’t know, not really, but he nods anyway.

“It was so good to be with my parents,” Patrick continues, voice soft. “They’re doing so well. Thriving, actually. My dad finally has an excuse to just spend days on end tinkering in his tool shed, trying to build whatever, and my mom is actually out there with him when she’s not in her garden. It’s sweet. They’re kind of in their element.”

“I knew you got it from somewhere,” David quips. “That kind of crafty resourcefulness has to be inherited.”

Patrick just shakes his head a little.

“And, um, Rachel?” David makes himself ask.

“Happy to be home,” Patrick tells him.

“And you?”

“Also happy to be home now,” Patrick says, and David almost chokes. He’s pretty sure Patrick notices. “I, uh, told my parents about you,” Patrick continues.

“Oh?” David says, aiming for a casual tone. “What, um, exactly did you tell them?”

“I told them that you are terrible at chopping wood,” Patrick says seriously. “And that you don’t know how to cook anything other than boiled water. Also that you’re terrible at—”

“ _Okay_ ,” David interrupts, because he is perfectly aware of his own shortcomings and there is no need to list them out loud, ever.

“I also told them that I—” Patrick cuts himself off and stands up abruptly.

“You what?” David asks, a little desperate.

“Count to five and then come up to the bottom of the stairs?” Patrick asks, as he steps inside and closes the storm door behind him.

David, not a little annoyed, nevertheless does as he’s told. Standing at the bottom of the steps, he watches through the glass as Patrick carefully removes his mask.

“David,” Patrick says, voice muffled but strong. “I know that the last few weeks have been hard for you. And I know it’s going to be two more weeks before it really feels like I’m back. And I don’t want to make it any more stressful for you, but I already told my parents, so I think I need to tell you. I love you.”

David gapes at him, frozen. Very few people have said those words to him in his thirty-however-many years, and he has said them to even fewer. Just the thought of expressing that kind of deep, honest emotion usually has has palms sweating. But Patrick—Patrick is just standing there, behind the door, all calm and earnest and open with his feelings. David _cannot even_ with this man.

“Okay, so _this_ ,” David says, blatantly trying to buy himself some time, gesturing at the distance between them and the glass and the mask and the _everything_ that means he can’t so much as hold Patrick’s hand right now. “This is how you’re choosing to tell me that?”

Patrick’s smile goes bright and crooked, and he shrugs a shoulder. “I just figured you wouldn’t like it later if you found out just how long my parents and my ex-fiancée knew and you didn’t. Besides,” he carries on, while David is trying to process the fact that _Rachel_ also knows, “I just—”

Patrick pauses and looks a little uncertain for the first time. “It just felt right,” he says after a moment. “I wanted you to know. You don’t have to say it back.”

David casts his gaze toward the hazy sky, as if any higher power could possibly help him when faced with this kind of excruciating affection. Truly, it is unfair and unreasonable and uncomfortable, because David has _never_ —he’s never done anything like this before. He’s never _wanted_ to do anything like this before.  


He walks up the steps, one by one, onto the porch, until he’s just on the other side of the glass, as close as he can get for another two weeks.

“I hope you know you are the worst,” he tells Patrick seriously, and Patrick just grins at him cheekily. “I can’t believe you are making me do this,” David adds, to no avail.

“Pretty sure I’m not making you do anything,” Patrick says cheerfully, seeing right through David’s bullshit, and he has the gall to actually put one of his hands up to the glass.

David huffs a sigh, rolls his eyes, grits his teeth, and presses his hand to the glass over Patrick’s.

“You are ridiculous,” David says through his mask. “And I love you.”  


Patrick’s face lights up with surprise and delight, like he somehow didn’t think David actually would say it back, like he maybe can’t believe that David feels it too, which is utterly preposterous.

David shakes his head ruefully and drops his hand. “We are going to request at least one full week off of the chore rotation when your quarantine is over,” he says firmly. “And we will spent one hundred percent of that week in your bedroom.”

Patrick raises an eyebrow. “Wow, if I had known that this was the effect it would have on you when I told you—”  


“ _Okay,_ ” David interrupts, because he loves Patrick, but hearing him say it out loud again is just more than he can handle right now.

David settles himself on the ground next to the door, as comfortable as he possibly can be. The pants are already dirty anyway.

“Until then,” he says, “you’re just going to have to keep me entertained some other way.

“Oh?” Patrick asks. “So are you going to pass me my guitar, or do you want to go back down to the sidewalk while I come out to get it?”

“Um, no,” David says, briefly waving a finger at Patrick before he gets himself under control and hastily drops his hand before he can remind himself too much of his mother. “I jus thought, if you wanted, you could tell me about—your parents? And where you grew up?”

This is not the kind of question that five-years-ago-David-Rose would ever have asked, not so much because he didn’t care, but because he can now recognize that most of his friends were self-centered enough that David had never _had_ to ask. He’d been surrounded by people who could, and did, talk about themselves incessantly, whether or not anyone around them cared to listen. David had listened, and they hadn’t cared.

Patrick, though, is a slow, gradual discovery. David has basked in his attention, his care, his thoughtful questions about _David_ and David’s life. And he thinks he might understand, now, why Patrick’s instinct is to keep the focus on other people; he also thinks that Patrick is ready to open up more. And David, to his own surprise, legitimately wants to know _everything_ about Patrick’s little podunk town and his life and his people there.

He settles against the door frame and watches as Patrick, leaning against the opposite side, smiles broadly and tells him about Clint and Marcy and a series of beloved golden retrievers. He listens to stories about sports ball and band practice and the girl who became Patrick’s best friend, only feeling a twinge of jealousy that Rachel got to know teenage-jock-Patrick and David did not.

The afternoon wears on and, as the shadows grow long, David thinks about his family down the street, and tomatoes growing in the garden, the occasional bottle of stockpiled wine. He thinks of quiet candlelit evenings and lazy gray mornings, the simple routines of cleaning and, maybe one day, soft guitar music and a gentle voice singing. He thinks of all of those things with Patrick next to him, at the center of them, and he thinks, _okay. I can do this_.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> P.S. If you're looking for another excellent (if very different) canon gay couple to fill the post-SC void in your heart, I shamelessly and wholeheartedly recommend The Old Guard. It's the reason I got sidetracked from this fic for 2+ months.


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